The Lord in the Mist
by The Wayland Smith
Summary: Part 3 of 'The Wandering Devil'. The year is 1996. The Second Wizarding War is in mid-swing. A traveller from another dimension is searching for a forbidden text. Forced to work with Dumbledore the traveller finds himself trapped between his quest and the war with Voldemort. Gods, demons and dark lords, he's seen them all before, but as reality grows thinner can anyone remain sane?
1. Chapter 1

**The Lord in the Mist**

 **The Opening**

James' feet thudded over the tarmac. The air had the chill bite of a late autumn evening and his breath fogged before him. It blended with the mist which had spread out around the river. The street lamps glowed overhead, a dull orange. Right foot, left foot. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Music pounded in his ears from the Walkman's tinny speakers. He turned right, cutting along the side of the canal. He flicked on his torch as he passed out from under the street lamps. The light bobbed up and down with each step. He slowed his pace as a cyclist whizzed by. There was the sound of paddles from the canal. Two canoes, propelled by laughing men passed him by, heading back up towards the city.

The lights from a car shone in the distance and he picked up his pace. Dodging around the shadows of a walker and their dog he cut across a field and pushed through the gate which would lead to the turning point in his run. Mist was slowly rising over the fields.

The Moon hung between the clouds. He caught its reflection in the river as he began to run up and over a long bridge which curved over the river Exe. His torch bobbed up and down in his hand, throwing strange shadows over the empty path. The railings ran before him, twisting in the shifting light. He adjusted the headphones and the bass thrummed through him. He pushed himself to go faster, willing his legs to pump harder.

A man stood in the middle of the bridge where an instant before there had been no-one. James stumbled. His keys jingled in his hand and he let go of the torch as he stretched out a hand to catch himself. It thumped against his wrist, held by the strap. James twisted, catching himself on the bridge's railing. He came to a stop, breathing hard.

The man swayed, rocking backwards and forwards. His thin face was pale and drawn. James blinked as he looked him up and down. The man was dressed in a long robe of fine black fabric.

'Are you alright, mate?' James asked. The man blinked at him slowly, trying to focus. 'Nice costume, what are you supposed to be?'

The man swallowed and raised an eyebrow, 'Pardon?'

'Are you alright?' James asked, more slowly.

'Yes, yes of course. Where am I?' He said, glancing from side to side.

'Er, Devon?'

'No, no, I was asking you. Aren't you sure?' With an obvious effort, the man focused on James.

'Of course I'm sure,' James said defensively, 'it's just, how come you don't know?'

'I am obviously quite forgetful,' the man said. He fixed James with his gaze. 'Now, what date is it?'

'Thirty-first of October, 1996,' James found himself replying. 'But …'

'Really? How marvellous. This is better than I could have hoped for. Now, my dear fellow. I'm sorry to ask this of you, but I need you to forget all about this. That won't be a problem, will it?' The man clicked his fingers.

James looked around him wondering why he'd stopped. He checked his Walkman, but as he opened it there was a curl of smoke and he let out a cry of disgust as he looked at the molten tape.

'Where is he?' Rasped a voice at his elbow. He jumped and turned to see an elderly lady, straight backed and neatly dressed in a tweed jacket and skirt. In the light of the Moon her eyes were so pale that they seemed almost white.

* * *

A fire crackled in the grate; rain lashed against the windows; and around the bar fishermen told tall tales of stormy seas and impossible catches. The Duke of Cornwall's Arms was nestled into the old, low houses which nestled together in the small fishing village on the coast of northern Cornwall. Built in dark wood with an old red carpet and a collection of copper oddments it was a tourist's dream of an English pub.

'Ah, you used to give us far more than this,' the latest winner of the dart's tournament was explaining to a newcomer as he finished off the last of the chips the pub had provided. 'I swear, when I was young they'd have given you enough that you could have drowned a horse in the fat they'd have needed to fry 'em.'

'Sure, Will, and I'd bet you'd have been surrounded by all the booze and women in the town too at that,' his listener, the barman, teased.

'I would have at that, too,' Will said with a wink, 'your ma was especially fond of me as I remember …'

The younger man coughed, almost dropping the glass he was polishing, 'Come on now, I don't need to hear things like that.'

'More's the pity, you should be grateful of a tip or two, Ben. How's that sweetheart of yours, Holly?'

Ben's ears were tinged with pink as he put the glass down. 'Holly's well, thank you for asking. She's looking into going to Plymouth for university next year. She says she's saved up enough now for the accommodation and the like. Make things easier, you know.'

'Good for 'er. Bright girl that one. You'd do well to hang onto her.'

The door opened and a tall man with hawk like features entered the room. He was curiously dressed in a long black robe which might almost have been a priest's cassock. There was a certain atmosphere around him which drew the eye. As he slipped between the tables conversation died around him and glasses sank onto the beermats.

'I need a room for the night,' he said quietly as he reached the bar. 'You do have rooms, do you not?'

Ben nodded, 'Yes, we do, but you'd be best to go and ask at the other door. They deal with that sort of thing.'

'There was no-one there. Please, would you be so kind? I'd like to be able to see the road from it.'

'Are you sure? We've got some looking out over the harbour,' Ben asked, picking up a piece of paper to note the details. 'They're only a fiver extra, £85 a night.'

'Certain. I would be very grateful if you'd tell me if anyone comes looking for me. I'm expecting a friend will call at some point during my stay.'

'Yeah, if they turn up and you're out is there anything you want me to tell 'em?'

The man hesitated. 'Just let me know. I'd like to surprise them.'

'And could I take your name?'

'Pilgrim. Thomas Pilgrim,' the man said firmly.

'Unusual name,' Ben muttered as he scribbled it down.

'Indeed? Well one can hardly help one's parents,' Pilgrim said. 'Now if you would show me my room?'

'Yup, just let me get the key.'

'Naturally. Shall I follow you?'

Ben nodded as he slipped out from behind the bar. 'Will, could you keep an eye on the bar? No sneaky pints.'

'Come on Ben! Not even one? I'll be doing you a favour ...'

'Not till I get back. Then you can have a half on the house. Me Ma'll have my hide otherwise,' Ben said. He led the way to the reception desk as Will, grumbling, moved round to behind the bar. He leaned across and hooked the keys from under the desk with a grunt. He turned towards Pilgrim and then slapped his forehead. 'Sorry, ought to have said, there's a one night deposit on the room. Do you mind?'

'Not at all.' Pilgrim reached into a pocket of his robe and drew out a slender leather case. Flipping it open he drew out a few notes and handed them over with a thin smile.

'Ain't seen something like that before,' Ben said as Pilgrim began to close the case.

'Really? It's hardly unique,' Pilgrim said, pausing to raise an eyebrow.

'Nah, the card I mean. That one with a picture of Death. It is Death, isn't it?'

'Oh yes. Just a tarot card though. I carry it for luck,' he shut the case with a snap. Cold eyes the colour of slate regarded Ben for a moment. 'My room.' A statement, not a question.

Ben nodded and led the way up the stairs. They wound deep into the old building. A long corridor, panelled in dark wood later and he opened the door into a small, neat room. Flicking on the light he ushered his guest in. It was decorated in sky blue and white. The double bed was neatly made and the room smelt of fresh sea air and rosemary.

'Perfect. Thank you,' Pilgrim said, nodding sharply.

'Any bags you need a hand with?' Ben asked.

'No. I travel light. You probably want to get back to the bar. Do not let me detain you.'

With that Ben found himself back outside the room and looking at the wood of the door. He wandered back downstairs. A headache had seated itself behind his eyes and he just nodded at Will's questioning glance as the older man poured himself a pint.

'Seems an odd bloke,' Will observed.

Ben popped a couple of paracetamol from a packet and gulped them down with a glass of water. 'He's probably a new ager or something.'

'Don't look it t' me. Robe might be right, but short hair, clean shaven? He looks like a business man more'n a hippy. Where's that accent from? Haven't heard anything like that before.'

'Sounds posh to me. Maybe he's foreign. You know, he didn't even have a bag with him,' Ben said. The bar was emptying and he came around to sit down at the well-polished table. 'I've got a splitting headache. 'Think a storm's coming?'


	2. Chapter 2

**Questions**

Pilgrim examined himself in the mirror. He drew a long wand from his sleeve and made a few small passes. The cloth of his robe rippled and flowed around him like water. It split apart, forming a rough three-piece suit. A few more motions of his hand and its lines became more sharply defined, fitting itself to him perfectly. There was something about it though that reminded one of a robe; to all appearances it was a neat, charcoal grey suit, yet that sense that it would have preferred to be a sweeping mantle and gown remained. Its owner, however, appeared satisfied. He pulled a silver fob watch from his pocket. A quick glance at the face and he snapped it shut.

'Too late,' he murmured. 'Supper first then? And then bed. No point in rushing these things.'

He left the room silently and slipped down the stairs. Treading lightly, he slipped past the receptionist and out without a sound. Only the click of the door as it shut drew the receptionist's attention, but by then he had already vanished.

The evening was crisp and cold. The scent of wood smoke and sea salt hung in the air and the wind whipped around him as he stalked through the streets of the fishing village. A man was taking money from the cashpoint in the wall of small bank. Pilgrim stopped and flicked his fingers towards the man. The man paused removed his card from the machine and wandered away dazedly as the money slid out.

Pilgrim stepped up to the cashpoint went through the motions of inserting a card and slipped the cash the man had left into his pocket. He glanced around cautiously and examined the cash machine for a moment or two. Satisfied there were no cameras or watchers in sight he extracted his wand and muttered something. The screen sparked and died. A moment later a thick wad of twenties slid out of the slot. He tucked them away in his pocket and stepped away, vanishing into the shadows.

The following morning, when the cleaner tapped on the door to Pilgrim's room, the door swung open almost immediately. Pilgrim was immaculately dressed in a suit and tie, dark eyes sparking as he ushered her in.

'Thank you,' he purred, 'allow me to get out of your way.'

'I can always come back later, if you'd prefer,' she offered.

'Not at all, not at all. I was wondering though, where is the nearest town? I find myself low on the odds and ends one needs for travel. I fear I need to make a few purchases.'

'That'd be Wadebridge. It's about three quarters of an hour's drive down the coast. Bus'll probably take an hour, should be one leaving from just outside, if you want to take it, in a few minutes.'

'Marvellous,' he smiled broadly and swept out of the room. Stopping by the front desk he handed over a sheaf of notes to the receptionist. 'Room twelve. I prefer to pay in advance. I hope you don't mind? I shall be out today. I imagine I will return late. Please note anyone who calls for me. I told the boy, Ben, I think, but if you wouldn't mind?'

The receptionist nodded, opening his mouth to try to reply, but with a cheery wink Pilgrim sketched a half-bow, spun on his heel and stepped out of the door.

* * *

Two hours later the cleaner would have been surprised to learn that Pilgrim was not in Wadebridge at all. Instead, rather implausibly, he was walking down a busy London thoroughfare. He crossed the road at a set of traffic lights and cut swiftly through the crowds of Londoners. Striding along the street he almost caused a man in a bowler hat to crash into a child as he turned in the middle of his stride and entered an old-fashioned pub which nestled between two much larger buildings. Although it stood out among its sleek modern neighbours the pub was being almost studiously ignored by passers-by. It was a long low building with a thatched roof and rough white-washed walls, it should have drawn the eyes of every stranger to the city, yet eyes moved over it as if it were not there. A sign with a painted picture of a leaking cauldron, bubbling over with a frothing potion, hung above the crooked door. It was a country pub, the sort which one might find in almost any English village. Smoky glass windows turned the inside into a medley of shadows to the passer-by, or would have done if the passer-by had shown any interest.

As Pilgrim stepped through the door he was awash in a babble of voices. An elderly hug was puffing away at a pipe as she played knucklebones with a wizened fomorian. Pilgrim raised a hand to cover his mouth as he pushed through the acrid cloud of smoke. The barman, Tom, raised his eyes to follow Pilgrim as he slipped through the press, but he lost interest as it became clear that Pilgrim was heading for the backdoor out of the pub.

'Not seen him in here before, Tom,' the hag said to the barman as he passed by her table to pick up her glass.

'Looked like a muggle to me,' he said, 'Probably an American holiday. They're better at the muggle fashions as a rule. Probably just doesn't want to hang around. Who does these days?'

'Didn't smell right,' rumbled the fomorian, wrapping its cloak more tightly around its shoulders. 'Cold. Like morning frost.'

'You're always so melodramatic,' opined the hag, blowing a ring of smoke into her companion's face, 'you thought a duck was plotting your murder yesterday ...'

Tom shook his head and continued to wend his way through the tables, collecting the glasses in an increasingly unsteady tower.

Pilgrim tapped his wand against the last brick in the wall behind the pub and stepped forward into the hidden heart of wizarding London: Diagon Alley. The street was fairly empty. A few shoppers hurried by, shoulders bent and faces down. They struck to the side of the street like mice hiding from a watching cat. Mud and refuse had built up in the centre of the road, broken only by an occasional footprint. Men in dark blue robes, and short cloaks to protect against the rain, patrolled the street. Their tall top-hats marked them out as Enforcers for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Pilgrim's footsteps did not falter as he joined the huddled shoppers at the edge of the street. He hunched his shoulders and the fabric of his jacket flowed out further, becoming a great coat as he made his way towards the white marble building which stood at the end of the street, towering over its fellows.

The great doors of Gringotts Bank were guarded by more than the usual two goblin spearmen. There was an entire squadron of goblin warriors and a leashed troll. He stifled his breathing as he passed by, trying to ignore the stink of troll. The atrium of the bank was less subdued than the street beyond had been. He joined a queue to a goblin teller and let his eyes rove over the scene. The hall was as vast as it had ever been. Rows upon rows of tellers dealt with customers. There were fire-rubies and liquid sapphires in scales. One lady was handing over a bonsai tree which shimmered with emeralds. The queue for the tellers moved fairly quickly, no-one wanted to spend too long dealing with a goblin. The goblins' black eyes, as bright as beetles regarded the humans with cold disdain.

'What may I do for you?' A teller rasped as Pilgrim reached the front of the queue.

'I would like to exchange these for galleons, please,' Pilgrim said, handing over a thick stack of notes.

'Do you have a pouch?' The teller asked as he thumbed through the notes, his long, black talons swiftly running over the money.

'Yes,' Pilgrim said. He fished one out from his coat pocket and half-tossed it onto the counter.

'That comes, with the exchange fee, to eighty-five galleons, twelve sickles and two knuts. That is acceptable?'

Pilgrim nodded and the goblin twiddled a series of knobs on his counter. There was a whirring and after a few seconds there was a puff of steam. Leather cylinders filled with gold, and a small collection of silver coins shot out of tubes and onto the desk. The goblin offered them to Pilgrim to count. When he shook his head the teller shrugged and poured them into Pilgrim's pouch.

'Thank you,' Pilgrim said as he slid the pouch into his coat pocket.

'Is there anything else I can do for you?' The goblin asked, then as Pilgrim began to shake his head he waved him away. 'Next!'

Pilgrim looked about him as he emerged into the wan sunlight, hesitating for a few moments before he turned left. There was a fine drizzle falling and he picked up his pace to reach shelter. The shops crowded closer and closer together until they almost touched one another above his head, turning the alley into a tunnel. Deep in the recesses of the street he turned into a shop which only displayed a single wand upon a faded purple cushion. The worn golden letters above the door spelt out the words: Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

The door opened silently and Pilgrim crossed the threshold cautiously, holding his breath as dust motes spun lazily through the air. The shop seemed empty. There were signs of recent damage; scorch marks on the floor; a deep scar ran along the counter, and one of the long shelves which ran far back into the shop was free of dust, as if it had been recently fallen over and had been set back up. Narrow boxes lined the walls behind the counter. Pilgrim let the door shut and took a seat in a waiting armchair. A few minutes passed. He reached into his pocket to check his watch.

'Good morning,' whispered a voice to his left. Pilgrim twitched, stuffing the watch back into his pocket.

'Good morning.' Somewhere outside the bells began to ring midday.

'What can I do for you today?' The speaker said, stepping into view. He was a young man, with hair so blond it was almost white. His eyes were ghostly too, so that altogether he seemed to be a man made of paper.

'I confess though, you are not the gentleman I was expecting,' Pilgrim said, uncertainly, standing up. 'In any case I have come for a wand. Do you sell anything else?'

'No, but you might have wanted the cushion,' Ollivander said with a slow smile. 'Sadly, the gentleman I refer to, my grandfather, has been recently removed from the premises by the followers of the Dark Lord. I do hope that he will be returned to us soon, Mr …'

'Pilgrim.'

'Ah, not a name I know. Have you had a wand before?'

'Several.'

Ollivander winced as if struck. 'Several?' He asked hoarsely. 'What on earth happened to them?'

'This and that. I have been around for far, far too long for accidents not to happen.'

Ollivander pursed his lips, 'I trust you will take care of this one.'

'I can honestly say that I would have given up every wand I have ever owned since the first to have my first wand back. It was an Ollivander, and one of the two finest I have ever held.'

'You have had one before.'

'Oh yes, I remember your grandfather well. I doubt he would recognise me now.'

'He has a most remarkable memory. Still, let us see what we can do for you. My grandfather taught me most of his lore whilst I was a babe, I feel sure we will be able to find the perfect wand for you,' the young man said smoothly. He drew his own wand and gave a few light flicks. Tape measures leapt into the air, recording every conceivable measurement before reporting them back to Ollivander as he circled Pilgrim, inspecting him.

'What a delightful choice of clothing, muggle, I imagine?' Ollivander asked conversationally as he noted down the distance between Pilgrim's little finger and his spleen.

'Yes, more or less.'

'A bold choice in these times. So many people prefer more conservative clothing. Far less likely to attract the wrong sort of attention that way.'

'Ah yes, you mentioned this "Dark Lord", I assume he's the root of the problem?' Pilgrim asked conversationally.

Ollivander froze, ink dripping from his quill. 'I couldn't say. Not my place.'

'Indeed?'

'One learns not to get involved in these matters. I would like to see my grandfather again,' Ollivander said stiffly. 'Now let's try a wand.' Long fingers dancing he plucked a wand from the shelf. 'Dragon heartstring and elm, twelve inches, unbending.'

Pilgrim reached out his hand only to withdraw it before touching the wood. 'No, I think not.'

'Very well, how about this one?' Ollivander clicked his fingers and a new box sped to his hand. 'Dragon heartstring again, alder, eleven and three-quarter inches. Unyielding.'

Pilgrim picked the wand up this time. He let his hand swing backwards and forwards experimentally, 'Interesting, it feels suited to delicate work?'

'I would certainly suggest that it would thrive best as a craftsman's tool.'

'Not the wand for me then. I need something a little more robust. I fear I would inevitably ask too much of such a wand.'

Ollivander nodded slowly. 'They say the wand chooses the wizard, but I suppose it must be an amicable arrangement.'

'My wand chose me long ago, and I lost it. Let us try for something I can be friends with.' They tried half a dozen more wands, until at last Pilgrim smiled. He flicked the wand and the room shivered, floorboards groaning as if under sudden pressure. 'Oh, this is excellent.'

Ollivander looked around the room nervously. 'Ebony and phoenix feather, thirteen inches. A hard wand, for a hard man, perhaps?'

'How much?'

'Nine galleons,' Ollivander said softly. He accepted the payment without further comment and watched as Pilgrim turned and left the shop.

* * *

If Diagon Alley had felt subdued it was more than compensated for by Knockturn Alley. The shadowy figures who usually skulked in Knockturn Alley seemed enlivened. They hawked their wares with a will, unconcerned by the possibility of the intervention of law enforcement. A tang of anxiety hung in the air, but there was a sense of growing surety too.

A pair of scantily clad witches smirked at Pilgrim as he stalked by. Their amused expressions hardened slightly as he merely gave a short nod of acknowledgement, but they turned their attention to other potential customers within an instant.

'I thought he was an auror for a moment there, Rosie,' the younger one said as Pilgrim turned towards the shop he was seeking. 'The look on his face!'

'They've got better things to do than trouble us,' the other replied. 'For the moment, anyway. It ain't as if we're hiding a Dark Mark after all!'

The shop front was grimy, though there was lingering evidence that it had once been fine and well cared for. Dark hardwood peaked out from beneath black paint. The windows were filled with strange objects – white worms, which floated in the air, twisting backwards and forwards; curious brass pieces of clockwork; silver music boxes; and slender copper needles, amongst other curios, lay on display. The brass shop sign declared it to be Borgin and Burke's.

Pilgrim pushed open the door. A bell chimed deep in the shop. The outside of the shop would have suggested a lack of care on its owner's part; the inside revealed quite the reverse. Every surface was spotless. Glass display cases gleamed. The floor was carpeted in a rich blue, veined with black. The fireplace was black marble. Black and white candles burnt around the room, shedding a soft white light over everything. The items within the shop sat in boxes lined with blood-red velvet.

The items here were obviously valuable, but an air of malevolence surrounded them: a ring of white gold, the label of which merely named it 'The Widower's Ring'; a dagger lined with red garnets; a waxy hand with wicks at the end of each finger; a small wooden statuette of a grinning man; an ivory boned fan lay in the cabinet closest to the counter, but they were only a tenth of the items which were placed around the shop.

He glanced about himself without much interest. There was the sound of footsteps and a small man, whose receding hair was oiled back into a long mane, shuffled into the room. 'Good afternoon, sir,' he murmured with an unctuous smile. 'What may we do for you today?'

'Borgin, just the man I wanted to see,' Pilgrim said. He turned his attention to the shorter man, like a cat fixing its gaze on a mouse.

'Do I know you, sir?' Borgin asked, his smile shrinking by a tooth or two.

'I don't believe you have ever met me. I am Pilgrim, a delight to meet you,' he said, and he thrust out his hand.

The oily man took it hesitantly. Strong fingers gripped Borgin's hand and cold grey eyes locked with his. Borgin shivered and pulled his hand away with a jerk.

'So, what may I do for you, Mr Pilgrim?' He paused and gave his visitor a sharp look. 'I don't think I know the name.'

'I doubt you would, I am not from around here. I am after a book. A very rare book. The Matrix Aeternitatis. Do you have a copy?' He asked, long fingers running over the counter.

Borgin shook his head firmly, his smile vanished completely. 'No. I deal in many … curios, some might even suggest that they are dark, but there are limits. That book is far, far beyond any limits.'

A shower of golden coins rained down onto the counter. 'You know it then. I'd be happy to recompense you for any trouble, if you could procure it for me.'

'There isn't enough gold in Gringotts. I won't touch that type of stuff,' Borgin pushed the gold back across the counter.

Pilgrim looked down at the coins, not touching them. 'Mr Borgin, the offer stands, if you could give me information I would happily pay you …'

'Get out. Get out now,' Borgin said flatly.

Pilgrim's eyes flashed up to meet Borgin's. 'You are going to help me,' he said softly. The candles fluttered under a silent wind. The shop's shutters closed with a clatter. 'I have no reason to play nicely. Tell me what you know, now.'

Borgin swallowed and licked his lips. He slipped a hand under the counter. 'I have powerful acquaintances. They won't like you threatening me.'

'Who? The Death Eaters? Voldemort?' Pilgrim chuckled as Borgin flinched. 'They don't care about you, and even if they did, I do not care about them.'

'You should, I've seen them do things you wouldn't imagine,' Borgin warned. Then he swung a wand out from under the counter. There was a flash and Borgin was pinned against the wall. Pilgrim tutted as he twirled Borgin's wand in his left hand, examining it before tossing it aside. He sheathed his own wand again. Borgin blinked trying to see where it had come from before it was lost again in the folds of the coat. Pilgrim stepped around the counter.

'Oh dear. That was rather foolish. Now how should I extract the information? I could rip it from your mind, but that would leave you a mindless husk. That sort of thing is noticeable,' Pilgrim mused. Borgin's eyes widened, but when he opened his mouth no sound came out. Pilgrim placed a long finger on the man's lips. 'Shush, shush. I'm thinking. Do you know how the cruciatus works? It takes the worst pain you can imagine and spreads it throughout your body, if the caster performs it correctly. It is rarely particularly effective against those who lack an imagination, or empathy. I, for instance, have felt very little upon occasions when people have been foolish enough to use it on me. You probably wouldn't find it particularly terrible. Yet.' He picked up a letter opener from beside the till on the counter. 'Shall we see about that, or will you talk?'

Borgin nodded his head furiously.

'Sorry, I don't understand. Is that 'yes, let's see about that', or 'yes, I'll talk'? You'll have to speak up,' Pilgrim said conversationally as he ran the tip of the letter opener over Borgin's nostril.

Borgin froze, breathing slowly through his mouth. He tried to speak. For a moment nothing came out and then with a fleeting smile from Pilgrim his voice came back. 'I'll talk. Just don't hurt me. I don't know much. Please.' Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes.

'Excellent. Now, don't lie. I always know if someone lies to me,' Pilgrim said, eyes boring into Borgin's. 'Where might I find a copy?'

'The Ministry's been gathering them up and destroying them for years. If you want records on the known copies they'll have 'em,' Borgin rushed.

'All of the copies?' The blade wavered in front of Borgin's eye. There was a clatter from the alley outside. A babble of voices cried out. Pilgrim's eye's flickered to the side.

'All I know. Might be some in private hands, but you'd be better asking a book merchant. Makenzie Reid knows about that sort of stuff. Don't know if he'll talk. Private gent,' Borgin gasped.

'I can persuade him,' Pilgrim promised. The shutters of the shop rattled. 'Is there a way out to the back?'

Borgin nodded.

'You're a lucky man Borgin,' Pilgrim said. He stabbed the letter opener into the counter, leaving Borgin suspended against the wall as he pushed through the door, vanishing into the shop's back room.

The shutters crashed open, and the doorknob turned. Sunlight flooded the room. An elderly lady entered slowly, her neat tweed suit moved as if fresh from a rack. She smiled gently at Borgin and he felt the magic which bound him fade away.

'Hello. Tell me, where is he? Where is the pilgrim?'


	3. Chapter 3

**The Archives**

Pilgrim stopped running. He was in a grubby dead end street lined by bins and a steel fire-escape. A skinny cat watched him impassively from a dustbin lid as he doubled over, catching his breath. He loosened his collar with one hand and glanced at the cat, who promptly began licking its paw. He sighed and stood up, straightening his clothes. Blank brick walls and dusty doors surrounded him. A vent spewed unpleasantly warm air out over the grimy little square of tarmac. In the distance a siren wailed.

Somewhere during his dash he must have crossed back into muggle London. He frowned, it should not have been possible. Diagon Alley, or rather wizarding London as a whole, had spat him out like a bitter pill. It was, admittedly, to his advantage, but it was unexpected nonetheless. The unexpected was dangerous. He shook his head, dismissing such thoughts.

Which way to the Ministry? Muggle London was a mystery to him, it would be all too easy to be lost in the maze of streets whilst looking for a gateway. All too easy to be tracked across the city. His hand twitched towards his wand and then stopped. Magic would only leave a clearer trail. He considered it for a moment and then drew a pair of black leather gloves from a pocket. He pulled them on and delved in his pockets again until he had retrieved a handful of pound coins. He strode out of the alley and turned left, following a sign to Camden Market.

The market was packed. Tourists squeezed between one another as they perused stalls of shawls, books, foods from around the world and the hundred and one other goods with which the market was filled. Despite this there was an air of gloom. Thin mists rose from the water of the lock, snaking through the crowds, a tell-tale reminder of breeding Dementors.

' _Portus_ ,' Pilgrim whispered. A pound coin glowed blue for an instant and he swiftly dropped it, letting it fall to the ground. He moved on through the crowd. A teenager spied the coin in the press and bent to pick it up. A moment later they were gone. The crowd closed without noticing. Another coin followed and then another.

The hair on the back of Pilgrim's neck prickled. Casting a couple of timed portkey spells on a leather jacket and a food tray he activated his own and vanished in a flicker of blue light. One shopper stopped to rub her eyes, struggling to believe that she'd seen a man disappear, but naturally there was nothing there.

* * *

Pilgrim did not break pace as he appeared in the atrium to the Ministry. He moved quietly, and his clothes shifted again to blend in with the ministry workers as they hurried about their tasks. The great hall of the atrium rang with voices which echoed off the shimmering ceramic tiles.

'Musgrove! Musgrove!' A short man shouted to a wizard, before catching his arm, 'Quick. I need you to come with me. There's been a spate of muggle-baiting in Camden. We've got signs of about a dozen illegal portkeys. Murdock and Graves are already on their way. Merlin, the press will have a field day!'

Pilgrim stepped out of their way and they hurried by without giving him a second glance as they hurried towards the great gilded fireplaces which lined the right-hand side of the hall. Pilgrim allowed the crowd to herd him past a fountain covered in sheets. The air shimmered over the fountain as a team of enchanters worked upon it.

The doors to a lift at the end of the atrium slid open and Pilgrim stepped inside with the herd of wizards and witches. A chicken with porcupine quills and red eyes hissed at him from the arms of a frizzled looking witch as they were squeezed together in the lift. Pilgrim leant back away from it as far as he could. The chicken eyed him balefully.

'Freddy likes you,' the witch informed him as she elbowed another wizard to prevent him from colliding with the bird.

'Does it?' Pilgrim asked uncertainly.

'Oh yes. He'd spit venom if he didn't,' the witch assured him. 'Wouldn't you my darling?' She asked the bird as she tickled a purple growth below its chin.

The cockerel cocked its head at Pilgrim, as if wondering whether it might be worthwhile to attack him anyway. Pilgrim gave a taut little smile and retreated, if possible, still further into his corner.

A smooth voice sounded through the lift, 'Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office.' The crowd in the lift heaved a collective sigh as a wave filtered out into the floor, and Pilgrim managed to push forwards, putting a heavily built wizard between himself and the chicken. Then a team of Quidditch players in their kit piled in and the passengers were forced backwards. In the crush the bird hissed again and spat yellow mucus onto a large wizard's back. The man screamed as it began to eat through his robes and burnt the skin. The back of the lift became a furore of noise and pushing. The witch vanished the venom and the wizard tried to turn around in the tight space to confront her. The chicken lunged forwards, biting the wizard's finger. At that moment the lift shot off moving diagonally in the void between floors. It swerved to avoid another lift, throwing the wizard onto the chicken's quills before they shuddered to a halt.

'Level Three and a Half, Department of Records, Miscellaneous Documents, Archives and Arcana,' announced the calm voice as the lift erupted into panic.

Pilgrim was the only one to force his way out this time. Behind him the witch and the wizard screamed at one another. The corridor the lift opened onto was less well used than the rest of the Ministry. The walls were covered in faded wall paper. Beams showed overhead. The carpet was old and worn, at least as much of the carpet as Pilgrim could see. Tall, dusty filing cabinets chocked the corridor. Tottering piles of paper obscured most of the floor and only a handful of lanterns led away into the depths of the department.

The lift rattled away behind him, leaving only a small wooden door in its place. He walked forwards, carefully threading his way between detritus. 'Hello? Is anyone here?' He called into the silence.

There was no answer. From deep in the department there came the ticking of a grandfather clock. Pilgrim glanced to the side, for a moment he could have sworn he'd seen movement, but there was nothing there, only a dappled stain on the wallpaper. He turned back to the corridor, there was a figure standing watching him. He started towards it, only to realise it was only a mirror as the figure moved in sync with him. A mirror which had not been there an instant before.

'Come out. Whoever you are, wherever you are, don't play games with me,' Pilgrim ordered, coming to a halt. He did not draw his wand.

There was an amused chuckle this time. Pilgrim shook his head with a sigh. His hand shot out and he caught the collar of a young man in crumpled robes. The man's mouth dropped open as Pilgrim heaved him out of the stain on the wall and dumped him unceremoniously on a pile of papers at his feet. He placed his knee on the man's chest, pinning him to the floor.

'What do you think you're playing at? What's your name?' Pilgrim asked.

'Anthony Thorn,' the boy stammered.

'Would you like me to report this?' Pilgrim asked, raising an eyebrow. 'Let me guess: you're an intern? They told you to do some filing and left you to it? You decided that was boring and wanted to play a prank. No, don't answer that. Take me the office.'

'How did you …?' The young man began to ask.

'Shut up,' Pilgrim said, cutting him off. He stood up, dusting himself down carefully.

The young man looked at him for a moment and met his gaze. He opened his mouth and then shut it. He heaved himself to his feet and, glancing back guiltily, began to walk down the corridor, gesturing for Pilgrim to follow him. The corridor twisted and turned around them. Yet, whenever Anthony looked back Pilgrim was walking straight ahead. He never turned or moved with the corridor. Anthony blinked trying to fit the sight of Pilgrim and the corridor together. They were like two separate images simultaneously shown on the same projector. Eyes watering he turned back to the corridor in front of him trying to concentrate on one image rather than two.

There was a short flight of stairs before the office, Anthony knew it, or at least he thought he knew it, but they simply did not appear. Or maybe they had already appeared. He was about to open his mouth to ask when he found his hand was rapping on the door to the head archivist's door. The little brass plaque announcing to any visitors that it was the office of 'Dr Ravenhill', swam into vision. He swayed as footsteps approached the door. He sat down with a thump on an antique chest which groaned under him.

Ravenhill, a middle-aged witch, opened the door and looked down at him. A frown creased her forehead. 'Are you quite well Thorn?'

'I'll be fine, my head's a little funny. The corridors were misbehaving. This gentleman's here to see you,' he said, trying to focus enough to gesture to Pilgrim.

'Well go and have a drink or something,' she said and stepped out of the way for Pilgrim. He gave a grave nod and stepped by her into the office. The door to the office shut behind them and Anthony put his face into his hands, trying to right the world.

Inside the office Ravenhill moved over to a small brass kettle. 'Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Yes please, that would be delightful,' Pilgrim said.

'I'll put it on then. Please take a seat, just dump the papers on the floor,' she added as he hesitated, looking at the chairs, each of which were covered in various notes and books. 'We don't really get many visitors down here. I'm afraid it tends to be a tad messy.'

'Thank you,' he said carefully picking up a pile and moving them over to nestle next to another stack.

'I hope the corridors weren't too much of a problem, Mr …?'

'Pilgrim. No, not at all. Should they have been?'

She paused and looked at him, a spoonful of tea leaves in her hand. 'They normally are. All these magical documents, they tend to wrap space around themselves a bit. I'm not even sure how many corridors we have. My predecessor said there were about a dozen rooms down here and twice as many corridors, at least when he was young. That was years ago though, we seem to have added a few since then.'

'I'm afraid I found it to be a very normal place, once Thorn ceased playing a little joke on me.'

'That boy! I swear Hogwart's standards have slipped. Half the ones we get these days are more interested in the latest jape than in doing any work. Must give him a talking to later. Strange that you didn't have any problem though,' she muttered. 'Any sugar?'

'No thank you, I prefer it black.'

'Wonderful. So, what can I do for you today?'

'I've been sent down to ask a few questions about a rather rare text. I believe you might have the best idea of what copies are in circulation at present.'

'Really? This should be interesting, what is it you're after?' She asked opening her eyes wide and pursing her lips as she gave him her full attention.

'It's … you know I forget the name, Gawain wrote the name down for me, and now it's slipped right out of my head _._ '

'Robards?' She asked in surprise.

'Yes, of course, I shouldn't be so informal. Still, I can't really go back up without something. I think it was the _Matrix_ of something or other …' Pilgrim said, gratefully accepting the cup of tea from her.

'The _Matrix_? It wouldn't be _The Matrix Aeternitatis_ would it?' She asked, her voice was suddenly subdued. She shivered. 'You're the second person today to come about that. I suppose you're here about the theft then, they did say they'd someone down.'

Pilgrim hesitated for an instant, taking a sip of tea. 'Naturally,' he said sitting up a little straighter. 'I guess I'm just the dogsbody, sent to get the general information for the proper aurors to get on it.' He gave her a rueful smile. 'What is it about then? Valuable?'

'It depends. Most people would say you ought to burn it,' a flicker of annoyance crossed her face. 'Why they can't just be happy to lock things up I don't know. Burning books, I can't agree with it. We had a copy you see. A few years ago a couple of higher ups tried to get us to destroy them, but you know how it is, paperwork gets lost. We just never seemed to find the orders.'

Pilgrim smirked, 'Terrible how things like that happen.'

'Anyway, you could probably sell it, but it'd either go for a pittance or a fortune. Some people couldn't be paid to take it, others would spend every penny they have.'

'Must be a strange book. Is it the history that makes it so valuable?'

'In part, they say the copy we had was Grindelwald's own. I've never read, but I have heard a few things about what's in it.'

Pilgrim leant forward, his voice dropping to a confidential tone, 'Really? Dangerous then?'

She leant forward too, 'Not to read, exactly, not that anyone's ever proved. There are strange stories around it though. They say everyone who has read it either went mad or became a powerful dark wizard. I've never read it, of course, but I saw the auror who brought in once. He told me that his partner read a single page of it …'

'Yes?' Pilgrim prompted as she hesitated.

'The partner killed his wife and children before burning himself alive,' she whispered.

Pilgrim let out a low whistle. 'Who would be stupid enough to steal something like that?'

'A collector maybe? People who want to try and contact …? Well perhaps it's better not to say. You know the stories about what was unleashed in the Great Wizarding War. People who want power? There are enough of them, do you think it could be You-Know-Who?' She asked.

'Possibly, but surely even he wouldn't deal in Grindelwald's type of magic. We've all heard the rumours about the sacrifices Grindlewald was performing!' Pilgrim said, and his eyes flickered towards the door as if he expected it to open. 'Could you give me some names though? Anyone known in the book trade who might have taken it to sell? Or who might be interested in such a book?'

'Well barring known Death Eaters I can't think of many people who would want it. Persephone Halifax might be interested, but only as a collector,' she said with a sigh, 'there are a few potential buyers on the European market: Salazar Rodríguez, Emmanuel De-Ville, Alexi Durand, and Countess Lucia Mancini. I suppose there might be others, but I don't know who they are. If you give me your full name I can send an owl to you if I hear anything. They're certainly the top people I'd contact if I were interested in getting something like this. As for book dealers who would stoop to this … I'm not sure. In Britain the only one I can think of would be Asmodea Carrow.'

'Carrow … I know that name,' Pilgrim muttered, frowning.

'Her cousins are both Death Eaters,' Ravenhill explained.

'Of course, my memory is going, and so must I. Thank you for your time, and the tea.'

'Shall I get Thorn to show you out?'

'Oh I wouldn't worry, I won't have any difficulty finding my way.'

'Are you sure, I wouldn't want to have send out another search party. It took us three weeks to find the last lad who got lost,' she warned.

'I feel quite confident in my abilities,' he said, 'and if I go missing, well more fool me. By the way, if you could send me any extra information I would appreciate it. My name is Thomas Pilgrim. I think the owls should find me with that.'

'Perfect,' she said, scribbling it down on a scrap of parchment. 'Come by if you find anything out. I don't like it when my books go missing.'

'Ah, yes, that's a thought. Could you show me where you were keeping it? Sensible to inspect the crime scene.'

'Certainly. If you'd follow me?' She said and gestured her wand at the door. 'It's lucky you know, the senior staff get shortcuts around this place, if they didn't we'd never get out.' She heaved the door open and it opened onto a vault of polished black stone.

Along a long shelf around a score of books were tightly chained. 'Don't worry about getting close to them. This is just an illusion of the room as it is at present,' she explained. 'We can't get in there without all three of the senior archivists keys, and an auror present. I'd offer to let you in properly, but Perdita and Monty are off today.'

'Thank you, I wouldn't want to get too close to this anyway. Any idea how the thief got in then?'

'We're not sure, but there's apparently a suggestion that it could have been when You-Know-Who took the defences down at Azkaban last week. The whole system faltered for a few minutes. Though they've fixed that now.'

'Intriguing. So, logically they must have known that the attack was going to happen. It would be too much of a coincidence that they just happened to break in at the same time. Who was in charge here when it happened?' Pilgrim observed as he wandered around the illusory room.

'Perdita, Perdita Hope.'

'Thank you, could you give me her address. I think we ought to have a quick chat. Nothing here though. It was a very clean job, they knew exactly what they were coming for. The chain looks as if it was cut with a hacksaw rather than magic?'

'Oh yes, we think that's what happened. Naturally the room is protected against magic, but we hadn't considered what might be done with muggle tools,' she said with a wince as she wrote down an address for him. 'I think this is her home address, though you could find her here tomorrow.'

'Another problem to correct, I suppose,' Pilgrim said sympathetically. He turned back to her and took the slip of parchment. 'Well that seems like everything. Just one question before I go, you said someone was asking questions about it earlier, who was it?'

'Professor Dumbledore. Are you quite alright? You look a little peaky.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Introductions**

Albus Dumbledore stroked his beard as he inspected the yellow parchment of the envelope. It had been addressed to him in a harsh hand, the quill digging into the vellum. Satisfied that he was not about to be cursed by it he drew his wand along the seal and slid out the short letter.

 _Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

 _When you visited us yesterday you requested that, if possible, I should inform you about anyone who came to ask questions on the topic we discussed._

 _A gentleman, calling himself Thomas Pilgrim came to enquire after the text later in the afternoon. At the time I found myself convinced that he was a member of the DMLE, but I cannot now recall why that seemed the case. I have since then contacted the DMLE about him. However, I have received the answer that there is not, nor ever was, such a man in their department. Going through the records I cannot find any mention of such a person in the archives. I can only conclude that he has either only just arrived within the country (illegally), or that he was using a pseudonym. His proficiency with English suggests the latter to me, though I leave such judgements in your capable hands._

 _Why this personage, whoever he is, wished to discover more about the missing book I do not know. The only point I can think that might interest you is that he asked after potential collectors._

 _He struck me as a reserved man and little more than the average wizard. However, I spoke to Thorn (our intern) after Pilgrim had left the department. He was deeply shaken and questioning him has led me to believe that without a wand or any incantation this wizard nullified the pull of the department, at least in so far as it cast its spell upon him._

 _I cannot think what to make of this and so I leave it in your capable hands._

 _Deepest Regards,_

 _Lenneke Ravenhill_

Dumbledore tapped the page with a long finger and turned it over slowly. He winced as the movement pulled on his other arm. It was withering, slowly but surely. The flesh was blackened, corrupted by the curse which had lain dormant in the ring he now wore as a memento of his own foolishness. A warning to himself: do not be hasty. For a moment, his fingers twitched towards it. He wrenched them back with an effort. 'Oh Ariana, forgive me,' he murmured.

This letter then was yet another mystery to add to his already prodigious collection. Another strange coincidence, if such things existed. There were too many unrelated events occurring: a break out at Azkaban; a copy of _The Matrix Aeternitatis_ vanishing; an explosion of magic in Southern England, which had scattered several of his recently repaired silver instruments around his office; and now there was someone looking for the very book which had so mysteriously vanished. The third might have appeared unrelated to the first, had the same instruments that the explosion had suffered not been the ones which had warned him the book had been taken. Instruments which measured matter from beyond this dimension.

Who was to blame then? No normal thief would have chosen to steal _The Matrix_. There were too few buyers for the dangers it entailed. There was the possibility that Voldemort had taken it. Dumbledore would have to pick the brains of his potion-master and spy, Severus Snape, to unravel that possibility. The timing of the theft had been disturbingly in tune with the assault on Azkaban, though the prison seemed less and less secure nowadays. If Voldemort had indeed decided to follow in Gellert Grindelwald's footsteps Hogwarts and the Ministry would need to prepare immediately.

'Yet, that possibility lacks a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , I think Fawkes,' he said, addressing the phoenix which sat, preening its red and gold plumage on a perch. 'Voldemort has never enjoyed bargaining with anyone, let alone those of us who are not human. He would have to be desperate to resort to such measures. I can't think what might have led him to feel it would be necessary. Unfortunately.'

Dumbledore stood and siphoned a copy of the memory of the letter, and his visit to the Department of Archives into his pensieve. Stirring the silvery mass with a raven's feather he stared down as the memories flocked together in chains of possibility. Fawkes crooned softly, his song easing his old friend's exhaustion.

'What are we to do?' Dumbledore asked out loud. 'We need more facts, more clues. There are so many things that must be managed, not least amongst them a visit to Gellert. The possibility is remote, you know, but if he were to be behind this ...' he shook himself. 'In any case, if anyone would know that book's secrets it would be him.'

Then there was this 'Pilgrim' character. Why had he been asking after the book? It seemed highly improbable that he was the thief. Perhaps a foreign antiquarian? A rare book dealer who wished to remain anonymous? It seemed rather fantastical, but then again what other motivations could he have had? Dumbledore sighed again and plucked a pinch of floo powder from a small teapot beside the mantelpiece.

'I shall be back before suppertime, Fawkes, do not worry for me if you wish to hunt.'

Fawkes gave a slow nod and with a lazy flap of his wings, managed to drift over to Dumbledore's shoulder. He gently nipped his companion's ear and after gentle rub from Dumbledore the phoenix leapt back across the room and onto his perch. Dumbledore threw the pinch of powder into the fireplace and cold green flames roared upwards, licking over the mantelpiece.

'The Ministry of Magic,' he said and stepped into the fire. The tall wizard vanished and the flames curled inwards upon themselves until there was only a single bright spark of light hanging in the centre of fireplace. Then that too was gone.

Dumbledore hummed quietly to himself as he ambled through the Ministry towards Minister Scrimgeour's office. Ministry officials quietly avoided his gaze as he passed by, changing their stride to give him a wary berth. He smiled and gave a cheery nod to one of the few Ministry workers who managed to bring themselves to look at him.

An aide, dressed in brown robes, stepped in front of him as he approached the centre of the complex.

'Can I help you, Professor?' The wizard asked.

'Ah, Griffiths, how are you?' Dumbledore asked. 'Would you like a sweet? I have always thought it must be rather dull to stand around in corridors. A good toffee can go a long way to alleviating boredom though.' He proffered a white paper bag.

'Professor Dumbledore, sir, I'm afraid the Minister has given orders that he is not be disturbed.'

'Naturally, naturally. Which is why I expect you to let me in, are you sure you wouldn't like a sweet? Or a chair perhaps? I hope you don't mind if I do.' A wave of his hand and a plush armchair appeared in the corridor. 'Of course, I'm willing to wait for the Minister, so please don't trouble yourself.'

Griffiths shifted awkwardly, looking up and down the corridor for help. No-one stopped for him. A flick of Dumbledore's wand and a pot plant and reading lamp appeared beside his chair. Griffiths coughed. 'Sir …'

'Excuse me, would you mind asking someone for a cup of tea?' Dumbledore asked. 'I always think that a good book is best combined with a pot of tea, Earl Grey, if you have any. No milk. Thank you.'

'Sir, I'll ask the Minister,' Griffiths said with a sigh.

'You will? Are you sure? He did say not to be disturbed,' Dumbledore said mildly as he pulled a book from his pocket. 'I honestly don't mind waiting, I've been meaning to read this for years,' he said, waving a copy of _Little Grey Rabbit's Pancake Day_. 'Personally my favourite was always the birthday story, but where is the fun in life if you refuse to challenge your opinions?'

Griffiths gave a curt nod and with a knock opened the door to the Minister's office. A few moments later he came out and ushered Dumbledore in. 'The Minister will see you now.'

'Thank you Griffiths,' Dumbledore said. As he stood the conjured objects vanished, and he swept past Griffiths into the office. The aide closed the door behind him.

'I hope you realise that you've cost that young man his job,' Rufus Scrimgeour growled.

'That would be a great pity, Rufus,' Dumbledore said, 'he was very dedicated to his job. It seems a poor reward for his loyalty.'

Scrimgeour glowered at Dumbledore. 'You know I won't do that. Let's get down to business Dumbledore. I'm a busy man: I'm fighting a war, and I'm still trying to sort out Fudge's mess. What do you want?'

'Rufus,' Dumbledore said gravely, 'we need not be at one another's throats. I have no desire to quarrel with you …'

'Then get the boy to support us! We need him Dumbledore!'

'Harry will, and should, do as he wishes Minister. I will not rob him of his free will. If we take the ability to choose from others how can we claim the right to determine our own lives? Now my desires are very simple on the other hand, I would be most grateful if you would arrange with the German High Council for permission for me to visit Grindelwald.'

Scrimgeour regarded him for a long moment. 'Fine. Why though?'

'Recently a book was taken from your own archives, it is one Grindelwald knew intimately. It would be advantageous if we were to ensure it did not slip into the wrong hands. I myself will look into those who might have … accidentally come across it.'

* * *

Pilgrim knocked at the door and waited. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the ache which the long bus journey had set into them. The house was a pleasant country cottage, set well back from the road. Red brick and dark timber seemed to alleviate the November gloom. The lawn grew in slightly uneven patches and outside the gate the tarmac of the rad glistened. Pilgrim knocked again. There was a noise from inside the house, or so he thought. He peered through a window, but there was no light on in the room and all he could make out was the edge of a sofa. He stood waiting. A thin drizzle had begun to gall and he turned up his collar against the rain. He cocked his head, there had definitely been a noise this time. It was a wet sound, like bloody meat sliding over stone.

He put his hand to the doorknob and twisted. The door was locked fast. He hammered on the door. 'Ms Carrow!'

There was no reply and with a shrug he picked up a likely looking rock. Black mud rubbed off onto his fingertips. He was about to hurl it at the living room window before he noticed the slim brass key it had been covering.

He let the rock fall and with a satisfied hiss he picked up the key. It turned in the lock easily. There was a click and the door swung open silently.

The hall was cold and damp. Beads of moisture glistened on the wallpaper and the carpet bubbled with water as Pilgrim stepped onto it. Grey fungi grew from the rotten water and bloomed over the wainscoting. He put his hand to his mouth, fighting back the desire to retch as he crept into the house. He drew his wand and held it tight and close.

He tip-toed forwards, sleek black shoes almost gliding over the carpet. He nudged the door to the living room open with a toe, the door swung easily. The wood was spongey to the touch and the paint rolled like cloth under the pressure. There was no-one in the room. The lights were old, enchanted oil lamps, but when he tried to turn one on by turning the small dial at its base nothing happened. He tried another and when that failed to work he lifted the lid. It was empty. He went back to the first, it too was empty. They had burnt out completely. He flicked the etchings around the rim, they flickered with blue light and then died.

He moved around the room slowly. There was no sign that anything untoward had happened, at least nothing he could see. Everything was neat and orderly. The walls were dry, although a creeping tendril of something dark had begun to spread from the hall across the wallpaper. A half-drunk cup of cold tea lay beside an open book on a coffee table. Pilgrim glanced at it. The open page was covered in an archaic script, an odd mixture between Arabic and ancient Sumerian, he thought, though he was not fluent enough in either to be certain. The mirror glinted in the corner of his eye, silver in the reflected light from the grey sky. He twitched as his reflection moved and then he gathered himself and left the room.

The door opposite was ajar, a dining room by the look of it. The door stuck as he tried to push it further open. With an effort he pushed it far enough to slip in. The room was choked with fine dust. It lay everywhere, a centimetre thick in places like fallen snow, and behind the door it was in a deep pile. Pilgrim inched across the room, every step sending eddies of dust spiralling around him. He ran a finger over the surface of the large oblong table which dominated the room. Dark mahogany gleamed beneath the dust, except for a slim line of white chalk which marred it, half way down the table.

Pilgrim paused, rubbing his fingers together, inspecting the chalk. He bent down and blew on the table. The dust flew into the air. Slowly he uncovered a glyph drawn in chalk upon the table's surface. It was a twisted thing, long lines snaked out from the centre. They curled, searching blindly for something just out of reach. It hurt the eye to look at it for long. Yet, it drew attention like a picture puzzle drawing the eye there seemed something to grasp if one were to look for long enough.

Dust drifted in the air above the table. Pilgrim drew a notebook and pencil from his pocket. He quickly sketched the glyph, his hand wavered as he came to the last line and then, purposefully, he drew it in reverse. He made a small note at the bottom of the page and stepped away from the table. He glanced about, there were two other doorways out of the room, one was veiled by a curtain, but the step protruding from under it suggested that it might be the way upstairs. Pilgrim flicked a coin into the air.

'Heads for the stairs,' he muttered as he tossed it. He caught the coin smoothly and slapped it down on the table. Heads. He nodded to himself, pocketed the coin and made for the other door.

It opened onto a study. Sheets of paper and books lay everywhere. There was no sign of magic here. A gramophone sat on a small table in the corner, needle scratching endlessly over a finished record in a grinding hiss. Pilgrim brought it to a stop, lifting the needle away. He picked up the record, turning it over in his hands.

'I was never fond of _Don Giovanni_ , personally,' he murmured as he slid it back into its paper sleeve and set it beside the gramophone. 'A pity that anyone should go out on such a depressing note.'

He rifled through the papers. They seemed to be the usual accretions of everyday life. Bank statements, a handful of love letters, notes on property, a set of eye tests suggesting increasingly short sight, all in all nothing out of the ordinary. He set down the stack of correspondence and pursed his lips. His long fingers ran over the covers of the books and the desk. They were a collection of dictionaries and book catalogues. He turned over one of them to reveal a pad of letter paper. Pilgrim's eyes lit up and taking out the pencil again he lightly rubbed it over the thick yellow paper. Nothing came up though, except for a few letters where the writer had pressed particularly hard. He stroked his chin slowly. There should have been more, letters had been written on the paper before. Although it was thick the handwriting he'd seen had been harsh, the quill used had dug into the paper on other documents. It should have been obvious.

The next room was a library. It was surprisingly plain. Fine bookshelves of waxed yellow pine lined the walls. The floor was made from plain oak and uncarpeted. The books on the other hand were anything but unassuming. Asmodea Carrow's apparently middle-class house belied the wealth that the library contained. Although there were a small section dedicated to more modern texts the majority were old, or ancient texts bound between wooden covers. Pigeon holes filled with cracked scrolls filled a corner. In pride of place there was a glass case with a single page of papyrus. Faded brown ink flowed over the page in a curling script. Pilgrim was halfway across the room to it before he managed to stop himself. He blinked slowly, licked his lips steeled himself with an effort before turning instead to the body which lay sprawled beside the cabinet.

He bent down and turned it over. It had been a woman in her late middle age. The silvered black hair was slightly tangled and in part matted with blood. Her skin was pale. There were marks on the woman's neck. Round contusions dotted her neck. Pinprick sized wounds oozed green ichor. He lifted her hair away from her neck to get a better look and as he did so his fingers brushed the skin. She was still warm. Pilgrim froze and looked around him, his wand held ready. There was no-one else in the room.

There was a wriggling thump from upstairs, and then he heard the front door click to. Pilgrim leapt to his feet and ran through the study and dining room, barely skidding to a stop in the slick hallway. The front door hung open, rain pattering down over the threshold.

He spun around, kicking his way into the living room. The book was gone from the coffee table. Pilgrim snarled and lashed out, sending the table flying. It cracked against the wall. His fingers flexed around his wand's grip as he took a deep, steadying breath. The mirror was misting over, water droplets running down it. He was about to turn back to the rest of the house when he noticed the faint letters on the mirror.

'D … T-R-U … T,' he read, picking out the words slowly, 'S … E-S.' He frowned. 'How extremely unhelpful. Why can't people be clearer about these things?' There was a slithering from the dining room. 'Possibly that would be why.' He kicked the door to and rammed a chair against it. The wood of the door shook as something heavy thumped against it. The doorknob twisted and then the chair began to slide back. Pilgrim put his weight against it, but the chair continued to move.

His eyes raked the room and he threw himself towards the fallen coffee table. He hefted it and hurled it at the bay window. The glass shattered. He surged forwards, leaping through the gap. Behind him the chair crashed against the wall. He landed in a crouch on the lawn and pushed himself forwards, sprinting for the gate. Vaulting it he hit the surface of the road hard.

'My, my, I have to say, I did not expect a display of athletics when I came to visit Asmodea,' said a voice filled with amusement.

Pilgrim looked up into the twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. 'The late Asmodea, I'm afraid, and we have to go. Now,' he said. 'Please, apparate us out of here.'

'My dear boy, I think …'

'Yes, yes, finish that thought later. I promise I'll explain. We need to go.'

'I was about to say that in that case I think you ought to take my arm,' Dumbledore finished mildly, holding out his withered arm.


	5. Chapter 5

**Brandy or Scotch?**

Pilgrim hesitated and then raised his hand to Dumbledore's. As his fingers closed around Dumbledore's a fine silver chain materialised around their wrists. Pilgrim opened his mouth, his wand twitching in his hand. 'What did you do?' He asked quietly. 'This is a binding charm.'

'I prefer to call it an apology charm,' Dumbledore said. 'Now, shall we go and investigate whatever made you so nervous? I flatter myself, Mr Pilgrim, but I can assure you that in my presence you need not be afraid.'

'How did you know that name? What is an apology charm? And,' he gritted his teeth, 'PLEASE, let's get out of here, I swear that I will explain, but we need to go,' Pilgrim insisted as Dumbledore opened the gate.

'We will, but forgive me, my curiosity has always been my worst vice. An apology charm is exactly what you would expect, once you trust me enough to forgive me for putting it on you the charm will vanish. Alternatively, I can remove it. I am sorry that I tricked you into taking my hand, otherwise it would not have worked. Your name was easy enough to guess, there are few men I would not recognise in England. I have the fortune to be a headmaster you see.'

'I know,' Pilgrim said, he fidgeted as he followed Dumbledore into the front garden of the house. 'What's to stop me from killing you by the way? If you don't trust me why not suspect the worst of me? I doubt the charm would outlast it.'

'Be my guest to try if you feel the need,' Dumbledore offered. 'A pity about that table, I believe it was her mother's,' he noted as they passed the broken coffee table on the lawn. As I was saying, there are few people I would not recognise. When one poses oneself the additional question of which mysterious young gentleman with an unusual accent would be visiting Ms Carrow … well the answer is quite self-evident is it not?'

Pilgrim eyed Dumbledore's back, rolling his wand between his fingers. 'I'm not sure that this is the best way to get people to trust you, you know?'

'Well, then perhaps this can be a learning curve for me,' Dumbledore replied amiably as he put his hand on the front door.

'I really wouldn't do that …' Pilgrim said behind him.

'Then it is fortunate that I am not you,' Dumbledore said cheerily. 'Now, would you mind telling me if you were the one to remove the protections?'

'No.'

'Interesting.' The door swung open onto the hall. It was damp, but no-longer running with water. 'The after effects of essokinesis, if I am not very much mistaken. I rather wish I had time to record the patina of fungal growths. It's changed since you last saw it, I presume?'

'Yes,' Pilgrim admitted grudgingly. 'It was a tad wetter.'

'Magnificent. I haven't seen distortions like this in decades,' Dumbledore murmured. 'Now what have we here? I assume that whatever you were so passionately running from did this?' He asked as he looked at the splintered living room door. The wood had bubbled and blistered. Droplets of yellow mucus steamed on its surface. As they watched the liquid dried and fell apart, turning into fine white dust.

'So, it's definitely gone,' Pilgrim said, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

'Oh, indubitably.'

'And the dining room … my word. Someone really ought to have been more conscientious with their housekeeping. Anything different from when you were in here?'

'There was a diagram on the table. I have a copy of it in my notebook.'

'Not too accurate I hope,' Dumbledore said, shooting him a sharp look.

'Of course not. I'm not thoroughly insane,' Pilgrim said. He tested the chain, pulling at it lightly. It remained firm.

'You are fascinating gentleman Mr Pilgrim, a working knowledge of the conventions of eldritch lore. A deep-seated reluctance to cast magic yourself, but you handle yourself with the type of confidence a man gains from being a master duellist. You do not seem terror stricken by the thought of facing whatever was after you in here, merely cautious. Either you have nerves of steel, or …' Dumbledore turned to smile at him politely, it reached all the way to his eyes.

Pilgrim held his gaze for a second before looking away. 'Who I am is my business. We have a shared interest in stopping the book from falling into the wrong hands. That's all.'

'Oh good, now that's a very positive sign. I was wondering if you would mention the book. Would you lead the way? Ms Carrow is deceased you said?'

'I'm afraid so, I think whatever was here killed her. She appeared to have been drained of at least a portion of her blood.'

'Haemoturgic thaumaturgy,' Dumbledore shook his head ruefully, 'Forgive me, blood magic.'

'I know what it is,' Pilgrim hissed. 'You think that this thing was able to maintain its presence in our world …?'

'By feeding on first the protective spells over the house, and Madam Carrow's blood,' Dumbledore finished for him. 'It seems the most likely solution, don't you think? I do not suppose you noticed whether there were any magical items in the house which seemed to be failing when you first arrived?'

'There were some enchanted lamps in the living room. They were almost dead by the time I entered. I suppose you're right, it might be a thaumavore. Did you see anyone leave the house before me?'

'No, I am afraid not. You have reason to think that they left when I was arriving?'

'Someone set whatever it was upon me, and someone took a book, which I think might well have been _The Matrix_. Whoever was here left mere moments before you arrived. They must have dodged between us like mouse between cats.'

'Intriguing, I wonder who our dance partner was.' Dumbledore turned from the door to the study and looked back across the dining room. 'Now forgive me, but I need to concentrate. I would hate to rob the aurors of evidence.' He raised his wand and gave a fluting whistle which echoed long after he had closed his lips.

At first there was nothing. Then the dust began to rise into the air. A moment more and it resolved into two blurred shapes, which rippled as if struck by breezes. The shapes moved around the table, drawing a glyph piece by slow piece. One took a book from the other, shaking its head and headed towards the door towards the living room.

'Stop the spell,' Pilgrim said quietly.

'Just a moment more, this could be vitally important,' Dumbledore said, focused utterly upon the figures.

'You need to stop it. Look at the symbol.'

Dumbledore tore his eyes away from the shape which had taken a step towards the hall door, and looked at the glyph. Although unfinished, the symbol was beginning to shimmer, pulling in light towards itself. Dumbledore executed a swift movement with his wand and the vision vanished. The symbol momentarily remained before it faded into nothing leaving a sticky black residue on table.

'I think it would be best if the aurors were unable to replicate that, don't you?' Pilgrim asked.

Dumbledore nodded and as he returned his wand to his robes a wind whispered through the room. 'Thank you, Mr Pilgrim, it seems you saved me from a spot of bother there. I fear I am losing my edge,' he gave a self-deprecating chuckle. 'Now then, shall we explore the rest of the house quickly, and then after I have sent a message to the aurors I think it might be time for a drink.'

* * *

'Brandy? Scotch? Or something else?' Dumbledore asked as he sank into a chair in his office. A wave of his hand and flames filled the fireplace. The silver chain around Pilgrim's wrist turned to smoke and vanished.

'Brandy, thank you,' Pilgrim said. He gripped the arms of a seat and lowered himself into it slowly, eyes flitting around the room. Small silver instruments chimed and trembled on the shelves.

'Please excuse them,' Dumbledore said. He picked one up from a shelf and tapped it gently. The object gradually stilled and the others followed suit. 'It would appear that your presence has excited them.'

'Indeed? What precisely do they measure?'

'Oh, the marvellous, the strange, and the ordinary,' said Dumbledore. His fingers gently stroked the silver for a moment before he set it on the side. 'Brandy?' He gave a flick of his wand and amber liquid began to appear in mid-air, spinning around as it came into existence. A crystal tumbler appeared around it and on a rolling coaster of mist it floated towards Pilgrim. 'Anything in particular in mind?'

'I cannot remember any at the moment. Your choice,' Pilgrim said, studying the liquid. 'How can you choose now though? This must be a summoning, to conjure would defy Gamp, yet you seem to be suggesting its final state has not been decided upon.'

'I have always held that Gamp's laws were guidelines. I was taught a trick by a witch in Bognor Regis when I was young. One cannot conjure sustenance of course ... but tell me Mr Pilgrim, how do we taste food or drink?'

Pilgrim cocked an eyebrow, 'Chemicals are detected by the nose and tongue, the information is transmitted to the brain through electrical impulses. Roughly.'

'Excellent, so, if one may make an illusion which affects the eye, why not one to fool the tongue?' Dumbledore asked genially. 'In fact, why not the brain as a whole. Inebriation can be caused as easily by a spell as by alcohol. Though thankfully we may avoid the more unpleasant side-effects.'

'You couldn't just impose that on someone though. They'd instinctively resist,' Pilgrim said, holding the glass up to the light as he examined the liquid, letting it flow backwards and forwards.

'That is true. Though, as long as they accept the drink they accept the enchantment.'

'How ingenious. I presume you can bend the rules on food as well then?'

'The simplest meal would be a feast if one had the desire and the imagination,' Dumbledore said with a small smile. 'You are too kind though.'

'The desire, the imagination, and magic. It is the last which sets us apart. Without it the dream could not become reality,' Pilgrim said, drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair.

'Sometimes it is better for dreams to remain ephemeral.'

'Why dream if you won't try to make your dream reality?'

'No matter the cost?' Dumbledore asked.

'Isn't this a little academic, we did just come from the scene of a murder.'

'Is it? Someone decided to take a dream and turn into a nightmare. Which leads me to the question of why?'

'That's a rather broad question,' Pilgrim said carefully.

'If I might revise my previous statement, I should have said that there were multiple questions all beginning with why: why were they at Ms Carrow's house? Why use the book? Why seek that book? But I was wondering whether you might like to tell me why were you there?' Dumbledore asked gently. He put down his own glass and almost moved to steeple his fingers as he watched Pilgrim's expression. His withered hand was stiff, however, and he smoothly shifted to slowly stroking his beard.

Pilgrim met his gaze for a moment before glancing into the flames. 'There's no answer I could expect you to believe.' The silence dragged on between them. 'If you're insinuating that I was responsible for Carrow's death then I fear we are at an impasse.'

'You have a cool head on your shoulders, Mr Pilgrim.'

'I'm sorry?' Pilgrim asked warily.

'I have almost a century of experience in getting children and adults to admit their misdeeds to me. Some choose to lie, some give in and tell the truth. It is rare that I encounter a man who chooses so deliberately to neither confirm or deny,' Dumbledore said. He took up his glass again.

'I cannot pretend I was a model student in the strictest sense of the idea. I'm rather afraid it may have carried through into my adult life. We both know why I was there,' Pilgrim said firmly.

Dumbledore nodded. 'For one reason or another you were pursuing the book. Which I take it you do not possess or else you might have made a more strenuous effort to evade me, despite the strength of your nerves.'

'Who do you imagine might have murdered Carrow?'

'Death Eaters, perhaps?'

'Hardly,' Pilgrim scoffed.

'Really?' Dumbledore asked innocently, 'Now why would you dismiss Tom's companions as suspects?'

Pilgrim's lip twitched. 'Point to you. Fine. It does not match Voldemort's usual _modos operandi_. He's never shown any interest in practicing that branch of magic. It's too risky. He wouldn't give any orders to find that book, and I doubt the Carrows would have murdered one of their own.'

Dumbledore nodded as if noting something to himself. 'Despite the differences between Asmodea and her cousins you are most probably correct. Which leaves us still wondering who it might have been.'

'A question the aurors will undoubtedly ask. I note you did not tell them I was present when you sent the patronus to alert them.'

'An oversight, I am an old man after all, things slip my mind,' Dumbledore said apologetically. 'Perhaps I should tell them now that you've reminded me?'

'Let's finish our drinks first. You know, Dumbledore, I am a stranger in a strange land. Even a stranger must make friends though. I would like to do you a favour,' Pilgrim said, leaning back in his chair.

'And what manner of favour might that be? You seem a man who would expect a price.' Dumbledore asked. He watched Pilgrim's face carefully over his half-moon spectacles, but the other man's expression was as blank as slate.

'You think I'm a mercenary? Or do you think I simply am mercenary? There's no price. I'd like your help with a few things, making sure my papers are in order, for instance. However, that's not conditional on my help. I will help you, whether or not you help me,' Pilgrim said as he put down his tumbler. 'I can undo the curse which lies upon your arm.'

Dumbledore glanced down at his arm as if faintly surprised to notice it was there. 'That seems unlikely. I have reason to believe this curse is one of a kind.'

'I have encountered it before. Once one knows how it works it is fairly simple to remove. The curse itself is designed to mimic the venom of one of the deadlier serpents. The curse must be drawn like poison from a wound. Allow me to do this. Even if the aurors were to decide I was a scapegoat afterwards I could at least be assured that someone almost as intelligent as I would be hunting down the book. Maybe it might not fall into the wrong hands,' Pilgrim said earnestly, leaning forward in his chair.

'Mr Pilgrim, you may drop the act. You have maintained an admirable control of yourself whilst we have been talking. Please do not insult me by expecting me to believe that the mask is slipping now. You are, in fact, proposing that we work together to find the book?' Dumbledore said.

'Yes, and for that I need you alive and strong. That arm will kill you in the long term and weaken you in the short term. There are things that book which drive men mad,' Pilgrim admitted, his face losing all expression again. 'We each need support. If you will not help me I still shall help you, but then we must part ways. I will not allow myself to be delayed by any aurors.'

Dumbledore nodded. 'Very well. On one condition. Allow me to inspect your wand.'

'Why?' Pilgrim asked, frowning.

'I have a passing knowledge when it comes to wand-lore. It would reassure me to have a little more information on your character. You seem reluctant to reveal yourself, and I doubt either of us would expect me to trust your own account. Therefore, your wand might at least give me some idea of what manner of man you are.'

Pilgrim gave a sharp nod and drawing his wand flipped it so that the handle faced Dumbledore. Dumbledore took it gently and pushing his glasses a little further up his nose turned it over in his hand. Pilgrim shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Well?' Pilgrim asked after a few moments.

'My apologies,' Dumbledore said handing it back to Pilgrim before sitting back in his chair.

'Was it useful?'

'Ebony, and only recently bought I think. A wand for a man with a purpose. I doubt you would divert your efforts into helping me unless you thought it would avail you,' Dumbledore said thoughtfully.

'So?'

'I accept your offer. There is no harm in trying. Before we engage in any attempt to remove this curse though I would like to discuss what we saw at that house,' Dumbledore said, straightening up in his seat. 'At the last moments of the spell I cast the figure I assume to have been Asmodea fled as if towards the living room. Why then was she found in the library? What did she intend to do in the living room?'

'Her cabinets must still have been protected when she died. Her blood was probably the seal on some of the rarer display cases, or possibly her fingerprints. It may have been that the murderer brought her corpse there in order to steal something.'

'I cannot think of anything that appeared to be missing.'

'It would have been easy enough to take a single scroll, or a book without leaving an obvious gap.'

'True. Why then had they come to visit her?' Dumbledore pondered. 'My suspicion is that she was not the thief. Which indicates she was needed for something else.'

'Was she a known translator?'

'Well known, and widely praised. She was a renowned polyglot. You suspect they could not read the _Matrix_?'

'I could not, I did not even recognise it,' Pilgrim admitted ruefully. 'The book was still sitting on the living room table when I entered the house. I wonder if the spatial distortions were caused by it rather than by the creature.'

'It is possible. I have only handled the book briefly, shortly after defeating Grindlewald. Gellert had taken to carrying his copy with him at all times. He claimed it was to protect others as much as to keep its power beside him. He begged us to burn the book, or at least imprison it in iron when he realised he had no chance of escape,' Dumbledore said.

He gazed into the fire, lost in memories. He shook himself free of them and looked up at Pilgrim with a renewed intensity. 'So, there was a passage in it which they, whoever they are, needed translating. It cannot have been the whole thing or else she would probably still be alive. Once Asmodea had outlived her usefulness she was removed, probably in order to gain another text as well. I must ask the aurors whether they have found a book catalogue in her library. It would be invaluable to know what might have been taken.'

'Whoever the original thief, unless it has been passed on to a buyer, they knew about her skills, and also about who might have an interest in the book. If the thief no longer has it they are no longer important: the book's location is paramount. We are looking for an expert. There can't be many of them. I intend to continue to follow the list of names Ravenhill gave me. I suspect it is much the same as that which she gave you,' Pilgrim said and he shifted forwards in his chair. 'I hope you will not mind if I call on you so that we may discuss further developments?'

'There is nothing else of note then, you think?'

'There is nothing which sticks in the mind.'

Dumbledore waited for a moment and then when Pilgrim's silence continued he nodded. 'Very well. So be it.'

'The curse then?'

'Let us begin.'

* * *

A clock struck half past the hour and Pilgrim, his damp with cold sweat looked up at it. 'I ought to be going.' He picked up a decanter of brandy which Dumbledore had placed beside him and took a swig. 'I shouldn't stay in one place for too long anyway. Not safe.'

Dumbledore gave the faintest nod. Fawkes sat on the back of his chair crooning softly over him. His right arm was no longer dead and blackened. Instead pale, if malnourished flesh showed under a torn sleeve. His voice was barely above a whisper, 'As you wish. If you would like to I can arrange a bed for you in Hogsmeade, it might be safer for you than travelling far after that.'

'No, I have enough for the Knight Bus. Perhaps though you might allow me to take the floo to the village? I'm not sure I can walk that far.'

'By all means. Just a pinch from the pot on the right on the mantle.'

Pilgrim pushed himself to his feet. There was a knock at the door and Dumbledore roused himself. He stood stiffly, shaking his sleeve down over his arm. 'Mr Pilgrim, I believe I owe you a greater debt than I realised. You will find papers waiting for you with the landlord of the Hogshead in a couple of days.' He turned to the door. 'Come in Harry.'

The heavy wooden door opened and the candle flames around the office wavered as a gust of air followed a boy of about sixteen into the room. Pilgrim turned from the fireplace, eying him. He was tall and surprisingly slender, though with a build that suggested a growing strength. Raggedly cut black hair fell in a tussled mop. Bright green eyes flicked inquisitively between Dumbledore and the stranger standing by the fireplace, taking in the torn carpets and shattered instruments. Unconsciously he shifted his body into a defensive posture, hand straying towards his wand.

'Is everything alright, Professor? I could come back later,' Harry asked.

'No, no. Mr Pilgrim was just leaving. Mr Pilgrim, this is ...' Dumbledore began.

'Harry Potter,' Pilgrim breathed. 'An unexpected pleasure.' A thin smile flickered over his lips. 'I think that we shall meet again. Good night, Headmaster. _Au revoir_ , Mr Potter.' He threw the floo powder into the fire. Green flames danced in the grate and he stepped into them, vanishing in an instant.


	6. Chapter 6

**Who?**

Harry climbed back through the portrait hole to the Gryffindor common room. He walked over to a sofa beside the fire which Ron and Hermione had already claimed and slumped down beside them with a yawn. Ron looked up from a scroll of parchment covered in ink blots and scribbled lines.

'Thank Merlin. How was it, Harry? Learn anything useful?' Ron asked stretching so that his shoulders clicked.

Harry shrugged and answered in a low voice, 'More of the same. I know Dumbledore wants to make sure I understand Voldemort,' Ron shuddered at the name, 'but I wish we were doing something ... I don't know something _more_. Maybe if he'd just tell me the basics then I'd feel that the bits we see were more useful.'

'Maybe it's all just prep and he'll start teaching you some awesome spells soon,' Ron suggested, bundling up his parchment and stuffing it in his bag. 'It could be a sort of test. See how patient you are. I remember Bill telling me stories when I was little of how wizards used to go and search for masters. The wizard they wanted to teach them would get them to do all sort of stupid tasks to show they'd put in the hard work. One bloke had to fill a bath with a bucket which had a hole in.'

'You'd have been permanently unable to get an education then,' Harry said with a grin, dodging Ron's attempt to clip his ear with a book. 'Were they supposed to show they could stop up the hole with magic?'

'Nah, just to try to do it without stopping until told otherwise. Bill had to do something like that to become an apprentice to a cursebreaker.'

Hermione perked up in interest. 'Really? What did he have to do? I haven't been able to find out much about cursebreakers.'

'You wouldn't,' Ron said, puffing out his chest with a touch of pride. 'They're secretive. Try to make sure others don't get their tricks. Got to keep the competition hot. Most of it is all word of mouth.'

'So ...' Hermione prompted.

'Oh, yeah. Right. So, he went and found this chap who lived in Wales in this tiny little cottage. He'd been retired for a couple of years, hadn't taken on an apprentice in a decade. It was miles away from anywhere. Bill sat outside in the rain for three days. He begged like mad to be taught. The bloke said no until Bill actually fainted on his doorstep,' Ron explained. His eyes had strayed from Harry, locking onto Hermione instead. Harry wriggled a bit deeper into the sofa as he listened, eyelids drooping.

'This is still normal then?' Hermione asked. She had put down the book she had been reading, carefully marking her place with a feathery bookmark. 'It sounds as if you can't get many cursebreakers if that's the initiation.'

'You don't. Half the ones who are apprenticed die during their training,' Ron said a bit more soberly. 'That wasn't the initiation though. That was just to check he was patient enough to face the proper test. There were a couple of minor things he mentioned. Copying books without any ink in his quill, counting every leaf on a tree beside the house. That sort of thing. The main stuff he said he couldn't talk about. He had scars from it though, one's he wouldn't let Mum know about.'

'Might he have been teasing you?' Hermione asked.

Ron scowled, 'Fred or George, maybe. Not Bill though. He had this look in his eye. You couldn't doubt him, not if you'd seen him.'

'I'd love to talk to him about his work someday,' Hermione said, chewing her lip, 'all the things he must have seen. The books and scrolls ...'

'Calmly Hermione, you'll give yourself a stroke if you aren't careful,' Harry teased as her eyes lit up at the thought.

'You didn't get her onto books again?' Asked Parvarti from a nearby sofa where she was plaiting Lavender Brown's hair. Hermione threw a disapproving look at her, but Parvarti merely grinned in reply.

'You ever heard of someone called Pilgrim?' Harry asked after a moment's silence. 'In the Order or something?'

Ron shook his head. 'No. Not a magical name either. Not British anyway.'

'I don't think so,' Hermione said, shooting one last half-hearted glare over at Parvarti.

'Why?'

'There was a man with Dumbledore when I went to see him. Tall with dark hair. He looked a bit like a hawk, he had really deep-set eyes. He had this weird atmosphere around him. The moment he saw me it felt as if all his attention had been focused down into a point on me,' Harry explained.

'Do you think he was trying to use legilimancy on you?' Hermione asked.

'No, I don't think so. I'm not good, but I could probably tell by now. It was just off,' he finished lamely. 'His accent was odd too, not anything I could recognise. Just odd.'

'I'm sure if Dumbledore was meeting him he can't be dangerous,' Hermione said, with a touch of uncertainty.

'I'm not sure Hermione,' Ron replied. 'Dumbledore's a bit like Hagrid. Though his pet monsters tend to look like people. I mean, he hired Quirrell, Lockheart, Crouch, Snape, Filch, and er Hagrid.' He held up his hands to forestall outrage. 'Hagrid's great, but you've got to admit he's a bit mad. He and Dumbledore don't see danger the way normal people do.'

'Do you think there'd be a way to find anything out about him?' Harry asked. 'I might be paranoid, but after the last few years ...'

'Better safe than sorry,' Hermione said firmly.

'Anything to stop you talking about "Malfoy the Death-Eater",' Ron muttered. Harry bit his tongue, choosing to ignore his friend.

'If we start by looking in the old newspapers we should be able to find a list of births, or possibly a mention of him,' Hermione said. 'How old did he look?'

'Forty, forty-five maybe. Would he be in the _Daily Prophet_ though? If he's not a pureblood or a half-blood ...'

'There are registers of most of wizard s and witches born, but it might be a few days before Madam Pince allows us to see them. They're supposed to be reference only and she's always been reluctant to get anything out from the stacks,' Hermione said after a moment's thought. She looked as if she were about to say something more, but at that moment Ginny and Dean stumbled in through the portrait hole giggling, arms linked.

* * *

Severus Snape finished his examination of Dumbledore's arm and stowed his wand carefully back inside his robes. 'I cannot detect any lingering sign of the curse. I think it would be wise to keep a few charms on the shoulder to slow the curse should it reappear. The charms will slow your recovery, but I am sure we can agree on the wisdom of caution.'

Dumbledore nodded. 'Thank you, Severus. That does indeed seem prudent.'

Snape rolled up the bundle of instruments he had brought with him, slipping them back into a black leather case. 'It's probably an absurd question to ask you, but might I inquire what prompted you to trust this wizard?'

'Nothing. I fully expected him to attempt to kill me,' Dumbledore said calmly. 'However, I couldn't be certain until I had tested my theory.'

'If he had it would at least have saved me the trouble,' remarked Severus. 'Could you not have at least tried to find a cure before I took a vow to kill you?' He asked as he shut the case with a snap.

'Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,' Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling merrily. 'I have the beginnings of a plan for that. I may need to do a little preparation though. Though, now more than ever you _must_ try to help Draco before he does anything foolish. I may not be present at Hogwarts as much as I would like to be in the foreseeable future, and it may drive him to extreme lengths.'

Snape looked as though he had been forced to eat a lime. 'He believes he can do this alone. He will not share his plans with me. I will of course continue to try,' he added, forestalling Dumbledore. 'However, I believe there is little hope.'

'There is another matter I also need you to help me with,' Dumbledore said dusting off his sleeve. 'I need you to make enquiries about Mr Pilgrim amongst your acquaintances amongst the Death Eaters. Anything they have heard would be useful.'

'You won't tell me why he is so interesting?' Snape asked, without hope.

'It is a matter which you are best off knowing as little as possible about,' Dumbledore said.

'Naturally.'

* * *

It was three days before Pilgrim left his rooms at the Duke of Cornwall's Arms. He was paler and thinner than he had been. His eyes were bright though as he ran them down the breakfast menu of a small café which perched below a cliff near the harbour wall.

'Any plans today?' The waitress asked as she flipped her notepad open. 'Going to the fireworks?'

'Fireworks?' Pilgrim asked, slightly nonplussed.

'Bonfire night, it's today,' the waitress prompted. 'You know, "Remember, remember the fifth of November

Gunpowder, treason and plot

I see no reason why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot ... dum de dum de dum", oh I never remember how it goes after that.'

'Well, it would seem that we have both suffered from a slightly lapse of memory then,' Pilgrim admitted, putting down the menu. 'May I have a poached egg and two slices of toast?'

'Of course, sir. Anything to drink?'

'Earl grey tea, with lemon and no milk,' Pilgrim said, handing her the menu. 'Thank you.'

She gave a quick bright smile, probably practised on a thousand others and left his table. Pilgrim looked out into the sea mist which pressed against the window to the shop. If he strained his ears he could just hear the lapping of waves against the sea wall.

He picked a newspaper from a stack in the corner of the café and browsed through it as he waited for the food. The news was much as he had anticipated: icy fog still covered much of the country; support for the muggle prime minister was faltering, and there had been a series of exceptionally brutal murders in Yorkshire. He sighed, wishing that he could find a copy of a wizarding newspaper, even the _Daily Prophet_. The only matter of interest was that there were an unusually high number of sunspots. He flicked through the paper to the crossword and began to fill it in with a handy biro a generous patron had left.

'Your breakfast,' the waitress said, placing two plates in front of Pilgrim.

'Thank you,' he murmured, filling in an answer. She left and he put down the pen for a moment in order to squeeze the slice off lemon into his tea, stirring it round with a teaspoon. He looked away from the newspaper to butter a slice of bread. Turning back, he lifted the pen. Then the ink began to flow over the paper as if it were being repainted by an unseen hand. He took a sip of tea as the letters on the page danced before his eyes. They slid around till a message was formed:

Reid. Injured. Local hospital. Find. A. D.

Pilgrim folded the newspaper up and looked around the café. Apart from the barrista there was no-one else in the shop. He took another sip of tea and waited a few moments later an address formed on the paper. Pilgrim noted it down quickly down upon the napkin and then the letters dissolved again.

The waitress came by his table. 'Anything else I can get for you?'

'No, no. I think not,' Pilgrim said as he filled in the letters for CARNIVAL. 'One thing though, if you thought someone was inviting you into a trap, what would you do?'

She looked at him again, 'A trap? What, are you some kind of writer?' She asked whilst polishing a nearby table.

'Something like that. So, what would you do?'

* * *

The address turned out to be a nursing home rather than a hospital. Pilgrim strolled up the drive between the spreading chestnut trees. The last green leaves were turning to red and gold. The sky was filled with dark rain clouds. The grass was slick. A lone magpie pecked at something on the lawns.

The nursing home was built in old red brick with two long wings which branched out from the central hall. Ivy crawled up the walls. Pilgrim pushed his way through the double doors. There was a small round table in the centre of the hall with a visitors' book on it. He signed in, the scratching of the pen on the paper was strangely loud in the empty room. He took the left-hand corridor on a whim, letting the door half slam behind him.

The corridor was carpeted in dull, worn green. An old man tottered past him on a zimmerframe and with a slight shudder Pilgrim drew back, giving way. The corridor merged into a room filled with men and women. He shuddered, looking with a morbid fascination at the silvery hair of a set of residents who sat on plush red seats, as if petrified, around the room. A woman wailed as he passed, weakly flailing her arms like a baby crying out for help. A few watery eyes followed him. The air was sweet, filled with a mixture of lavender, perfume and disinfectant which coiled around him and hung heavy on the tongue.

Pilgrim noticed a nurse in a stiff blue uniform and white trainers walking towards him. 'Excuse me,' he said, stepping into her path.

'Yes, can I help you?' She asked.

'I'm here to see Makenzie Reid, do you know where he is?' Pilgrim asked.

'Are you family?' She glanced over his shoulder and raised her voice a little to someone behind him. 'I'll be with you in a moment Mrs Fisher.'

'A friend of the family. I was asked to look in on him,' Pilgrim explained. 'He only came in during the last few days. We wanted to see how he was settling in.'

'Sure. Well if he's a new arrival he's probably in one of the room on the second floor, near staircase B. There were a few vacancies up there,' she said waving vaguely behind herself. Then, as he peered behind her she slipped past. 'Coming Mrs Austin.'

Pilgrim watched her leave for a moment and then headed in the direction she had pointed. The stair, behind a heavy fire door, was marked with a large plastic B. A list of residents hung beside a hand sanitizer dispenser and Pilgrim flicked through it quickly. Tearing out the page he needed he pushed open the safety gate to the stairs.

The second floor was dimly lit. The faded orange wallpaper was almost grey in the weak light. Doors lay open onto small rooms where televisions buzzed with the drone of late morning shows. There were old photographs of the residents, usually smiling and amongst family members. The few who were sat in the rooms were alone through, staring silently into space. Pilgrim hurried onwards down the stifling warm corridor.

At the end of the wing he found a door with the name 'Mackenzie Reid' taped onto it on paper above another name. Pilgrim pushed it open gently. The door slid softly back over the carpet. A man set facing the window. His hair was as white as untouched snow.

'Mr Mackenzie?' Pilgrim stepped into the room. There was no reply. There was no-one else there, save for an elderly lady sitting in a rocking chair whose fingers curled in the grip of arthritis. There was no reply. Pilgrim crossed the room almost silently and crouched down before the man in the chair so that their eyes were almost level.

The man was younger than Pilgrim had expected from his hair. Fifty at the most. His fingers flexed again and again on the arms of his chair. A thin line of clear drool had dribbled down over a quivering chin. Faint blue eyes struggled to focus. They wandered slowly backwards and forwards over Pilgrim's face.

'Mr Reid,' Pilgrim said slowly, 'can you hear me?'

Reid's face contorted with a great effort and he gave a feeble nod.

'Can you speak?' Pilgrim asked gently. 'No wait, forgive me. Just blink, if you can, once for yes and twice for no. Shush, shush, it's okay. I don't want to hurt you,' he reassured Reid. The man was trembling violently, his face flushing at one moment and turning pale the next. 'Breathe deeply now. In. Out. In. Out. Now can you blink for me? Remember: once for yes, twice for no.'

Reid blinked once.

'Good. That's brilliant. Now, was this an accident?'

Reid blinked twice.

Pilgrim nodded to himself. 'Was it a man who did this?'

Two blinks.

Pilgrim licked his lips. 'Was it about a book?'

Two blinks. Pilgrim frowned. 'What? But it must have been. Why would anyone attack you if not about the book? Can you spell it out? One blink per letter. Then close your eyes tightly when you've finished the letter.'

Reid began to blink. Twelve blinks. Fifteen. Fifteen again. Eleven. 'Look. Okay, so they were looking for something.'

One blink.

'Is that one blink for "a" or one blink for "yes"? I'll take the next one to be a "yes" or "no" answer,' Pilgrim said in a strained voice.

Reid blinked twice.

'So not something. Someone?'

One blink. Reid struggled. His mouth gaped loosely, tongue poking against his teeth.

'Someone. Do you know who?' Pilgrim asked gripping Reid by the shoulders. 'Please, you have to tell me!'

'You. We were looking for you.' The voice was clear and sharp. It came from behind Reid. 'Riddle, we have been waiting for some time.'

Pilgrim stood up slowly. 'I haven't used that name in the best part of a millennium.'

The elderly woman who had been sitting in the rocking chair was now standing beside the door. She was dressed in neat tweed and the light from the window seemed dim in comparison as if she herself were filled with an inner luminescence.

'Is there a name you would prefer?'

'I have no name now.'

'Then you must forgive us for finding ourselves forced to call you by any name which comes to hand,' she said, taking a step forwards.

'What may I do for you then?' Pilgrim asked. His eyes flicked back and forth rapidly.

'Pay us what you owe, or we will end our part of the deal. We gave you knowledge, you promised your soul.'

'Technically I promised it after I was dead, and if you could find it. I've certainly lost most of it,' Pilgrim said with an ingratiating smile. 'By the way how should I address you?'

'Your people have called us messengers, heralds, the envoys. You may call us Erelah, for we bring tidings of great joy. Either you may surrender your soul now, or we shall take it by force. We may assure you that the latter is significantly more painful.'

'I think I'm going to have to pass. It all sounds very unpleasant. You know, if I didn't have such a high opinion of you I'd say you were pulling my leg over the good news thing. I'm pretty sure your lot eat souls,' Pilgrim said dubiously.

'We purge souls. We free them from their darkness.'

'I happen to be rather attached to my darkness, thank you very much,' Pilgrim said. 'I assume you sent the note. May I ask why?'

'We were growing tired of waiting.'

'Let's see, you must have found Reid's name from Borgin. You must have wanted to make sure I'd visit. I knew Dumbledore would never sign his name with only two initials. That man is far, far too self-involved.'

Erelah raised an eyebrow.

'Oh, don't give me that look,' Pilgrim snapped, 'at least I don't refer to myself in the third person, unlike some people here we might mention.'

'And what makes you think we were referring to ourselves in the third person?' Erelah said.

There was a creaking from the hall as if a dozen chairs had been pushed back. From somewhere in the house there were muffled cries. Pilgrim craned his neck to look, but the lady was between him and the door.

'You brought company?' Pilgrim asked.

Erelah smiled and pulled open the door to the room. Beyond the hallway was crowded with the residents of the home. More and more came from the doors down the hallway and others came through the door at the head of the stairs. Their eyes were copper. Their teeth were gold. They smiled at him as one. 'The malakhim are here.'

Pilgrim drew his wand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Deals**

'Now, now. Wait a moment,' Pilgrim said, 'you haven't attacked yet. I am fairly certain I cannot destroy your spirits by destroying your hosts. That probably means that you are not afraid I am going to kill you. For now, anyway. Which means you are concerned I might escape. Despite the fact I cannot apparate out of here. How encouraging.'

'What is the purpose of this talking?' Erelah asked. She took a step forward. The mouths of the malakhim moved in sync with hers, emitting a soft whisper.

'Ah, ah, stay where you are,' Pilgrim warned as he raised the tip of his wand a little. 'Why don't we see if we can help one another out?'

Erelah tilted her head in consideration. 'What do you have in mind? How may you help us?'

'Well, that's the question, isn't it? You're evidently powerful. So, what do you want? You said you want my soul, but let's be honest, that would be a snack so tiny a starving dementor would ignore it,' Pilgrim said pausing for breath. He walked over to Erelah, peering at her. She drew back a little, watching him warily. 'Which means that is not what you want. What do I leave behind if my soul is gone? Well my body. You can easily take that over afterwards,' he said waving at the malakhim. 'I approve of the idea though. If you can reinvigorate the corpses a place like this could give you an army.'

'You are stalling. Why?' Erelah asked. The malakhim pushed forwards behind her, eyes gleaming.

'Because it's keeping me alive? An important fact because I am very keen on maintaining that state of affairs. Which is why I am prepared to help you. Anyway, the question is can you access memories?' He leaned to the side to look at one of the malakhim. 'Now, it seems unlikely a creature of spirit learnt to command flesh in an afternoon, so you probably can. Though I suspect the choice of victim suggests the gentler the death the easier the transition.'

Erelah bared her own teeth. They were silver and gleamed, casting light around the shadowy room. 'You have thirty second or my malakhim will rip you limb from limb. Believe me when I say we _can_ reassemble you.'

'Understood,' Pilgrim said, backing away a little. 'You need my knowledge. I would imagine in order to get more souls to feast upon. My apologies, purify. I offer you this bargain: I will honestly answer three questions, in return you allow me to go this time. You still claim my soul in the long run, but I get a head start for now.'

'We do not feast on souls. Does your ignorance know no bounds, child of dust? We save them. You could help us save them all.'

'Ah, saving is it? I think not, I rather doubt your "salvation" is anything I want a hand in. Sinister armies do not tend to bode well for the manner of salvation,' Pilgrim said smiling politely.

'Very well, but what is to stop me from killing you afterwards?'

'Nothing at all,' Pilgrim admitted, 'Except that it will cost you resources. Resources I do not believe you have. The thing is your backup is not that impressive. Possessing bodies would only be necessary if you lacked the strength to bring yourselves into this dimension. It is easier to travel between worlds without a physical form. Looking at you though, I think you followed me through, I was fairly sure someone had.

'The doorways I make do not last long though. Not long enough for more than one or two of you. You couldn't strip this planet bare of life on your own,' Pilgrim said and a smirk flickered over his lips.

'So?' Erelah asked. 'With your body and knowledge united with our power ...'

'You would not get far. I cannot do more. However, I know who could. You try to take me and I will destroy my mind and with it everything you want to know,' Pilgrim said, raising his wand to his temple. 'You say you can reassemble me? I doubt it.'

'You would not do that, it is against your nature,' Erelah said, but she sounded doubtful.

'Well, I am calling your bluff. Are you brave enough to call mine?' Pilgrim asked calmly.

There was a long pause. 'No,' Erelah admitted.

'Excellent. Then this is how this will work. These lovely boys and girls you gathered here will wander off. Somewhere I can see them: on the lawn, preferably. Then you and I will leave the house via the fire exit at the end of the corridor. When on the grounds you will ask three questions. I will choose in which order to answer them. I will answer two. Then I will write the third answer and put it on the ground. You will drop the anti-apparation spells. Then we go our separate ways,' Pilgrim announced.

'And the other humans here?' Erelah asked with mild interest. 'Those who are still alive?'

'I think I shall assume they are already dead,' Pilgrim said after a moment's thought.

There was a whimper from Reid. Pilgrim sighed, 'Though, I suppose I owe you a kindness.' He moved like a snake, his wand whipped down to touch Reid's forehead. ' _Avada kedavra_. Trust me, it was a mercy,' he said to the corpse.

Erelah shook her head in wonderment. 'I am amazed you have even a shred of humanity left.'

Pilgrim shrugged. 'Shall we?'

Erelah nodded. The malakhim turned silently and moving as one they filed down the corridor to the stairs. Pilgrim waited a few minutes, watching from the window as the figures gathered on the lawns in neat rows. He watched them, glancing backwards and forwards between them and Erelah.

'Let us descend,' Erelah said, gesturing graciously towards the door.

'Perhaps a quick change of plans is in order,' Pilgrim said. 'You did not really imagine I would walk down a fire escape into the arms of your minions, did you?'

He gave a lazy flick of his wand and the wall paper peeled away from the wall. The bricks, which had been laid bare trembled and then began to slide about. They fell away and the ivy beyond began to twist into bannisters leading down to the ground as the bricks reformed themselves into a long, straight staircase.

'Your caution is admirable. Allow me to reassure you by leading the way,' Erelah said. With that she walked by him.

Pilgrim hollowed her carefully, watching the malakhim from the corner of his eye. The chestnut trees were whispering in a chill wind which rattled their branches. In the grey light, the malakhim shone with a dull, golden radiance. Their heads turned to watch Pilgrim as he reached the ground. The bricks moved beneath his feet, keeping him above the wet grass as he turned to keep Erelah in view.

'So, give me your questions,' Pilgrim said, folding his hands behind his back.

'We have your word that you will tell the truth?'

'You do.'

'Who do you believe we must we find? What are you searching for? Whose interference must we most fear?' Erelah asked.

'In reverse order then: Albus Dumbledore, though you probably knew that. His, or mine. That is to say, I as I am now, not I as I was now. Tenses can be so confusing in a situation like mine. Different dimensions do not make it any easier.'

'We understand.'

'Do you?' Pilgrim asked dubiously. 'I am not sure I do.'

'Answer the rest,' Erelah demanded.

'I am looking for the _Matrix Aeternitatis_.'

'Why?'

'That is my business, not part of our deal. Now,' Pilgrim said, conjuring a piece of paper over which letters crawled like spiders. 'Lower the spells.'

Erelah raised her hands to the heavens. The wind died away and the air cooled until frost crackled on the leaves. 'The blessing I laid upon this place is fading. Give the paper to me,' she said, holding out her hand.

Pilgrim gave a sardonic smile, folded up the sheet of paper into a dart and gently blew upon it. The dart lifted into the air and zipped away, landing somewhere down the drive. A malakh loped towards it, doubled over. 'There you go,' Pilgrim said. 'Farewell. Forgive me if say that I hope you never find me.'

A fist slammed into his back. He was hurled through the air. He landed awkwardly, sliding over the lawn, churning it into mud. Fallen twigs scratched his face and hands. Pilgrim coughed and groaned. He staggered to his feet. Reid, his eyes now glowing with copper light, golden teeth bared, ran towards him. Wailing the rest of the malakhim charged.

Pilgrim twisted, wand dancing in his hand, as he pulled himself to his feet. Ivy seized the malakh and flung him into the air. A branch of chestnut speared Reid's corpse through the chest and the light left his eyes. Spells leapt from Pilgrim's wand. They fizzed and crackled in the wet air. Erelah took a step forward and with a jerk of Pilgrim's wrist the wall of the house collapsed onto her.

Malakhim were sent flying. Invisible blades sliced through the elderly bodies. The malakhim ignored the mortal wounds though, pushing forwards. Horse chestnuts and stones leapt from the ground rattling against them like bullets, punching holes in their flesh and bone. Water gathered in the earth around Pilgrim as he retreated. The ground became a clinging mire for his attackers even as they split apart to surround him. They carried the bodies of the fallen, using them as shields.

'You ought to have your word,' Pilgrim called out over the hissing of the malakhim. There was no reply and with a small sigh Pilgrim threw himself back into the fray. The ear and air raged with him against his foes. Shields of ice and flurries of leaves, transmuted into steel, swirled around him. He walked calmly back towards the gates to the property. A malakh managed to leap through the dancing spells and grasped at his arm.

Pilgrim pirouetted, wand slashing down savagely. The malakh fell apart, neatly bisected. Pilgrim snarled and the trees of the avenue creaked as a hurricane of wind ripped amongst them. He turned on his heel, razor blades of thought lashed out, knocking the malakhim aside as he stalked back towards Erelah who, free of the rubble, stood waiting. Brick dust covered her, the rain turning it into thick, red sludge.

Flames flicked out from his wand and he caught them in his left hand. They wrapped around his arm, leaving his flesh untouched. Long, hissing serpents of scarlet fire twisting backwards and forwards. A malakh, missing a foot picked itself up and flung itself towards him. Pilgrim threw out his arm and a snake struck, biting deeply into the malakh's neck. The creature's veins glowed with golden light and then the elderly flesh disintegrated leaving only a column of cobalt fire. It grappled with the serpent, suffocating the smaller scarlet flames within its own.

Pilgrim did not bother to turn as with a wave of his wand a rush of wind blew the blue flames apart. The snakes around his wrist vanished with a hiss of steam. Around him the malakhim were shrieking as they strove to pull themselves back together. Blue flames ran over their wounds as the lacerations sealed themselves. Pilgrim dusted off his sleeve, before looking back up at Erelah. He rolled his shoulders, stretching.

'Do you have any last words?' He asked her.

She shook her head. The clouds had parted and a beam of sunlight enveloped her. Pilgrim stabbed with his wand. The grass between them was flattened by an invisible force. Erelah raised her hand and the air rang. Pilgrim slid forwards, spells cascading down upon Erelah.

She advanced towards him. Curses hissed and spat in the air as she batted them aside one by one. Her tweed jacket burst into flame, but she ignored it. Her teeth were bared as she pushed through the storm of spellfire. The conflagration which had engulfed the tweed spread. It roared upwards and her flesh bubbled and ran like wax.

Pilgrim took a breath and planted his feet firmly on the tarmac, lowering his wand. Rain had begun to fall and it hissed and sizzled on the smouldering grass and trees. Wood cracked and popped, cinders drifting to the ground.

Erelah moved slowly, limping towards him, down the long drive. Her hair was a writing mass of golden light, one eye was sapphire blue, dripping with molten flesh. She grasped a spear in her right hand. Around them the anti-apparation ward was falling apart, silver lights danced in the frigid air.

'I think that's my cue to leave,' said Pilgrim, eyeing her slowly.

He turned on his heel. Erelah moved. She crossed the twenty feet between them in a blur. She thrust the spear towards his heart. Pilgrim raised his wand. The spear slid off a silver shield, driving into his belly. Pilgrim stumbled, his mouth opening in shock as he vanished with a faint pop.

The paper dart bobbed in a puddle.

* * *

Harry's thumb trailed over the titles of books as he followed Hermione around the library. Ron had decided to put in further practice at goal keeping for the upcoming Quidditch game and along with Katie and Demelza he had had gone down to the Quidditch pitch. Harry, whose pile of homework was growing ever larger, had decided to try and reduce it back to a manageable level. As he plucked a book on silent defence charms from the shelf he could not help himself from glancing towards the window which looked out onto the Quidditch pitch.

'Ginny and Dean seem happy,' he said, in an attempt at a casual tone, to Hermione.

'Mmm,' Hermione agreed, unable to speak as she tucked a final leather-bound volume under her chin. Tottering with the weight of the twenty or so books she had selected for her charms assignment she led the way back to the table they had claimed.

'I don't see them talking that much though,' he added, pulling out Hermione's chair for her as she set her books down.

'I think it's Ron really,' Hermione said, tucking her hair behind an ear. 'He can be a little abrasive at times, about Ginny that is, so they try and keep their relationship out of the common room.'

'Oh yeah, that makes sense,' Harry admitted. Much as he wanted to deny it Ron's protectiveness of Ginny was growing progressively worse. Ron had taken to glowering if she and Dean so much as held hands. There was an odd feeling in Harry's chest though: as if mud were slowly sloshing back and forwards, trying to smother a small flame. He put his own books down with a heavier thump than necessary, drawing a warning hiss from Madam Pince as she shelved books a few aisles away. 'I wonder how long it'll last.'

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh, 'Harry, could we get to work? I promised Professor Flitwick that I would prepare an additional paper on the efficiency of counter-clockwise motions when casting horticultural charms for the Charms Society. I need to concentrate! If you need to catch up on the current gossip Pavarti would probably know more.'

'Sorry,' Harry muttered and opened a book to start taking notes.

The next hour passed swiftly enough. Harry jotted down passages from the books he'd collected as Hermione first worked her way through her own much larger pile and then went off to find further reading. As she was coming back Harry looked up from his notes and shoved them to the side. He stood up, gathering the books he'd used together and dumping them onto one of the library trolleys. He was about to go looking for a couple of other pieces to help flesh out the essay when a movement in the grounds caught his eye.

Ron, Katie and Demelza were circling down from the sky towards two figures who were walking up towards the school. At first Harry could not tell why they would be interested and then the taller of the two figures stumbled and fell, collapsing to the ground. Ron and the two chasers landed beside the figures.

'Hermione, we've got to go. Something's happening out there,' Harry said, shoving his parchment into his bag. 'Looks like someone's hurt. Ron's down there.'

Hermione hesitated for a moment and then picking up her books slid them carefully onto a reshelving trolley. Harry and she walked quickly from the library before breaking into a run. By the time they were outside a crowd was gathering. Sixth and seventh years on free periods as well as Herbology classes of second years, and a collection of other young students had spilt out onto the slopes of the castle's mound as they watched the small knot of figures approach.

Ron and an auror Harry didn't recognise were half-carrying a man with dark hair who held his hand pressed to his belly. Dark liquid seeped between the man's fingers. Katie was hurrying up the hill before the three men.

'Everybody move!' She shouted.

There was a muttering and then the sixth and seventh years began to push back the younger students, clearing a pathway through the crowd. Professor Sprout pushed her way to the front of the crowd, gasping as she saw the blood dripping onto the grass.

'Has anyone sent a message to the infirmary?' The stout, elderly professor asked. There was a general shaking of heads, including from the auror, who was now close enough that Harry could see how young he was. Probably a fresh recruit rather than a fully-fledged one.

'No, Ma'am,' the auror-in-training, called up to her, blushing at the oversight.

Professor Sprout huffed and with a flick of her wand a small, silvery patronus appeared. 'Tell Poppy, a young man is being brought up to the infirmary. It's a stomach wound. He's bleeding heavily,' she puffed. 'Now let's see about a stretcher.'

'What happened?' Harry hissed at Katie as she reached the top of the hill.

'Come on Potter, Shipp, Catesby, Mullinger. Each of you take a pole. That man needs to stop making that wound worse as soon as possible. Granger, keep a featherweight charm on it. Smith, be prepared to catch it with a charm should the others drop it,' Sprout said, 'all of the rest of you, clear out of the way.'

'I'm not sure,' Katie said as Harry picked up one of the handles to the stretcher. 'He just appeared at the gates like that. I was too far away to see properly. I think he just ordered them to take him up to the infirmary. The wards didn't stop him, so the auror sent him up here under guard.'

'Come on, stretcher down. Now young man, you need to lie down on the stretcher,' Professor Sprout ordered.

As the man lay down on the stretcher his piercing grey eyes met Harry's. As the blood dripped through his fingers running off a leather wallet gripped in his hand Pilgrim gave Harry a pained smile.

* * *

Pilgrim woke slowly. His body ached in a dozen places, but he felt whole. He kept his eyes shut. He could still feel the leather wallet clenched in his hand. There were voices from somewhere nearby.

'Headmaster,' said a woman, 'I am not comfortable with having this man in the castle. However, we cannot move him yet, it might kill him.'

'I assure you Poppy, whilst he is here we will make sure there are aurors watching him, just as soon as I have spoken to him.'

'I think that might be a while Headmaster. He died. It's a miracle we managed to resuscitate him. I'm surprised that he came back at all. I thought he was gone,' Poppy replied.

'Dumbledore, despite Poppy's reservations, we should move him to a room in the dungeons, somewhere secure,' Severus said, his voice cold and sharp. 'I have examined his clothes. It is a marvel he was wounded at all. They were so heavily enchanted I doubt a dragon could have bitten him without blunting its teeth.'

'Was he carrying any dark objects?' Dumbledore asked.

'Not precisely,' Snape admitted reluctantly. 'That wallet has something in it though. I've never seen anything like it, but he wouldn't let go of it. The man has a grip like iron, even in death.'

'Something to discuss later, Severus,' Dumbledore said, his tone shifting slightly. 'Perhaps you and Poppy might like to compare notes. I would like to observe the patient for a little while.'

There was the sound of footsteps and a chair beside Pilgrim's bed creaked.

'Well, Mr Pilgrim, you've caused quite a stir. Would you like to assuage Severus' concerns and tell me what is in that wallet that you are so keen on holding onto it?'

Pilgrim opened his eyes. 'You knew I was awake?'

'Yes. I ought to let you know that Madam Pomfrey expects you to make a fully recovery before long. She should have been able to mend the wound immediately, but there was an enchantment of some kind on the blade which wounded you. We have been unable to entirely remove it from you, but the wound should be healed within a few days with the help of a few potions. Might I enquire as to how are you feeling?' Dumbledore asked.

Pilgrim blinked at the venerable wizard who, dressed in rich purple robes, was watching him benevolently. 'Thirsty,' he croaked.

'Of course,' Dumbledore said, pouring him a glass of water from the jug by the bedside.

Pilgrim pulled himself up, wincing as his side gave a twinge of pain. He sipped from the glass before handing it back to Dumbledore with a sigh. 'Thank you. Now what was it you wanted to know?'

'I was wondering if you might tell me what is so important about that wallet?' Dumbledore asked.

Pilgrim's lip twitched. He opened the leather case and pulled out a worn card with a picture of Death upon it. 'A gift, from Death himself,' he said with a wry smile. 'My key to immortality.'

'Really, how unique,' Dumbledore said. Whether he believed Pilgrim or not, Pilgrim could not tell. 'May I see it?'

'Well in the state I'm in I hope you'll forgive me if I hold onto my good luck token for now,' Pilgrim said, slipping the card back inside the wallet. 'Is my wand lying around somewhere nearby?'

'I have kept hold of it for safekeeping. I will return it to you as soon as we leave Hogwarts. However, the aurors are rather keen that you should not be carrying a wand for the time being. Whilst I have persuaded them not to set a watch upon you immediately I should warn you that I expect them to come to take your statement shortly. On which note, may I present you with the papers which you seem to have carelessly dropped last time you visited the Hogshead,' Dumbledore said with a slight wink.

'Ah, very kind of you to return them,' Pilgrim said, accepting the small sheaf of papers.

'Oh, and your invitation to the soirée this Saturday evening upon the M101, or the Daedalus, whichever you prefer. Should you find yourself strong enough,' Dumbledore said, passing him a gilded card. 'I shall be in attendance, people have the strangest tendencies to invite me to such things. I believe there is to be an exhibition of rare art and manuscripts. I think you might be interested in the guests.'

'Ah, I see. The M101?' Pilgrim asked, a little uncertainly.

Dumbledore rose to his feet, straightening his beard. 'A rather fine dirigible.'


	8. Chapter 8

**Icarus**

The air thrummed beneath the weight of great propellers. Pilgrim limped towards the folly above which the airship hung, moored. Leaning heavily on a cane he began to climb the tower's narrow, spiral staircase. He took each step slowly, wounded muscles protesting. Dumbledore ambled up the stairs behind him, enjoying the evening air which gusted in through the windows. The elderly wizard hummed under his breath, fingers dancing in time to the tune.

'The greatest dirigible ever built, or so the Ministry claims. I have a fondness for those of my youth. I was on board when the R101 was launched…' Dumbledore trailed off.

'Didn't the R101 crash on its maiden voyage?' Pilgrim asked, resting for a moment.

'It was in 1929, you know,' Dumbledore said, ignoring him, 'There was a man there, Doctor … I forget his name, although I'm sure it will come to me in a moment. He was fascinated by the whole thing, convinced it was going to be a disaster. He was right, unfortunately,' Dumbledore stared up at the grey bulk of the airship. 'Still, once mustn't live in the past, and I must admit I cannot wait to relive the glories of my youth or look out from the viewing platform.'

'I thought we were here on business.'

'One should always mix business with pleasure. There is often too much time for the former and too little for the latter. Given that the great, the good and the fashionable are holding the auction under the auspices of our own dear Ministry I shall take my pleasures where I can find them,' Dumbledore said with a cheery wink.

'It sounds pitifully dull,' Pilgrim said. He straightened up, dusted down the sleeve of his robe where he had leaned against the wall and cracked his cane against the steps. After a moment they began to move, or rather the two wizards were moved by the stones, for the steps themselves were as solid and unshakable as before. 'Which am I to be? Great, good or fashionable?'

'Are you feeling particularly good?' Dumbledore asked sceptically.

'Tolerably.'

'A pity, depravity is far more well regarded.'

Pilgrim gave a thin smile, 'I'll make this a night to remember.'

'Good evening, gentlemen,' a haughty, culture voice said. A steward stood waiting for them beneath a delicate Gothic arch. It was the folly's uppermost window, and it appeared a doorway into the airship.

The steward wore a Venetian mask and as he gave them a low bow the long nose of the bird-like mask brushed the floor. His fair hair glinted like a halo around the mask before he straightened once more. Standing there, outlined against the window, he looked like a figure from the pages of a cheap horror story. 'Welcome to the Daedalus. May I offer you a programme for tonight? And now, if you would care to step inside …'

Taking the programmes with a word of thanks they stepped through the hatchway and onto the ship. A kaleidoscope of sound and colour greeted them. Green carpets and living aspen wood, trained into bannisters, and woven into walls and ceilings formed the bare bones of the reception. Lanterns filled with dancing lights filled the room with sparkling colour, but it paled to insignificance to the clothes of the guests. They flitted about, poisonous rumours spreading from smiling lips.

Dumbledore stepped away from Pilgrim and cut through the milling crowd. It parted for him, drawing back and growing silent as he passed. Though, as far as Pilgrim could tell, the old wizard paid them no heed. Behind him their whispering renewed with a fierce intensity.

Pilgrim limped forwards, weaving his own path towards the head of the stairs into the exhibition gallery. He was weighing how to try to bait the interest of the wizards and witches who might be of use when his thoughts were interrupted by a woman's hand on his arm.

He turned to look down at the hand's owner. The witch wore her hair in the latest fashion. Her lips were dyed purple. Starlight glittered on her eyelids when she blinked, and strands of sunlight were woven into her hair. Pilgrim grimaced and made a move to pull his arm away from her grip. Her fingers held for a moment and then she gently released his arm.

'Please excuse my impertinence,' she said with a smile, 'but where did you get that robe? It's so wonderfully vintage.'

'Excuse me Madame, I am in search of an acquaintance,' Pilgrim said, trying to step around her. She mirrored his movement though, and he found himself pinned by the wall in the press of witches and wizards. He took a slow breath, putting their proximity out of mind.

'Was it Dumbledore? I saw you arrive with him …'

'I arrived at the same _time_ as him. If you regard that as sufficient evidence of a closer connection I am afraid that neither I, nor anyone else, can help you.,' Pilgrim corrected her coolly. 'Now, if you wouldn't mind '…

'The evening has only just begun,' the woman said with a titter of laughter. 'Surely you can spare a minute for a lady who wishes for the pleasure of your acquaintance. I can hardly believe that you are one of those dry little collectors,' she gave an airy wave towards a group of wizards and witches who seemed to have formed a tight circle nearer to the exhibition gallery.

'Madame, I am as dry and dusty as a sealed tomb,' Pilgrim said. 'Now if you will please let me go, or better yet direct me to Ms Carrow, I will be on my way.'

'Ms Carrow …' the woman's mouth fell open for a moment. 'Oh, don't tell me you haven't heard. Terrible news, truly awful,' she said delightedly. 'She's dead. She died just the other day. Were you close? I don't think you said your name.'

'No,' Pilgrim said. 'Forgive me. That is quite a shock. I am Intuneric, Sarpe Intuneric. At your service. Forgive my earlier rudeness …'

'Per, everyone just calls me Per,' the witch said. 'Might I enquire where you're from? I can't quite place your accent.'

'I have been travelling for many years. It has been a long, long time since I last visited this sceptred isle,' Pilgrim said with a wan smile. 'I had hoped to meet with Ms Carrow, we had communicated occasionally, mostly on academic matters. We had some overlap between our fields of expertise. My knowledge of the arcane complimented her remarkable skills at translation …' he trailed off. 'A pity that we shall not be able to collaborate further.'

Per nodded, and then her expression changed to curiosity again in an instant. 'You know, it is most odd, but I'm almost certain someone described you to me the other day …'

A strident voice cut her off before she could continue. 'Per, darling, what are you doing over here? Quintus has the most wonderful little device he picked up in Istanbul and he's about to demonstrate it on the foredeck. At least I think it's called the foredeck.' A tall man with milk-white skin and a bristling moustache interposed himself between Pilgrim and Per.

'Horatio!' For an instance a shadow flickered over Per's face, 'I was just talking to this gentleman, a traveller …'

'I prefer to think of myself as a pilgrim on the road,' Pilgrim interjected softly.

'Really?' Horatio turned to regard Pilgrim. His eyes flicked over him and, coming to some internal conclusion, he turned his back on him again. 'Come along now Per. Quintus won't be kept waiting forever. You know how excitable he gets.'

Pilgrim reached out, pushing Horatio aside to offer his hand to Per. 'It was a pleasure to meet you,' he said, ignoring Horatio, whose cheeks turned crimson as he stared at the offending hand which had brushed him aside.

'I hope we shall speak again, before the end of the evening,' she said with a wink, shook his hand once and turned away. She took Horatio's arm and they vanished into the crowd.

Pilgrim took a moment to look about, and then climbed the last steps onto the next deck. White walls and arching columns stretched upwards. The press was thinner here. Individuals prowled around display cases. Ancient manuscripts, faded codices, an obsidian statue of a wizard. One was a vast window, steel struts holding together glass in a giant eye.

The setting Sun was in its centre, its glow lighting the glass on fire. Pilgrim limped across the floor, leaning on his cane as he looked out. The airship was pulling upwards, he realised. The mooring ropes had been released and now it was beginning to rise. Already the trees around the tower it had been moored to were receding.

'It's a lovely view isn't it?'

Pilgrim nodded, and then looked at the speaker. It was a wizard, dressed in a navy-blue robe with polished brass buttons.

'Are you here for the auction?' Pilgrim asked.

'No. I was a technical adviser on the design of the Daedalus,' the wizard said, running his hand gently over the steel frame of the window. 'I've been invited along for my services.'

'It is a beautiful ship,' Pilgrim offered.

'She is. Though, I would have preferred it if it had been left without this gaudy decoration. It's far more minimalist than all this nonsense would have you believe. All of this,' he waved his hand towards the aspens whose boughs whispered at the entrance to the lower deck, 'is just a tasteless illusion. They thought the four seasons would be an amusing diversion … pah.'

'Some people prefer to see the illusion,' Pilgrim said.

'People are fools. What about you? Do you like to see the illusion?'

'If you can see the illusion, and know the truth, you can make a profit,' Pilgrim said. He moved his hand slightly, casting out hooks of thought towards the wizard.

'That's just an illusion too,' the wizard added, pointing out towards the forest of pines. 'Oh yes, they bent space enough to put in a copse or two, but soon we'll pass the edge of the bubble and it'll all be Birmingham. In all its grim and grimy glory.'

'Sometimes there can be a beauty in the mundanity of humanity. I've been to places which were astounding beyond words, so sublime that I longed for a bit of graffiti,' Pilgrim said with a chuckle. 'Perhaps not today though,' he added turning away from the window as the air shimmered and grey clouds flooded the sky, blotting out the setting sun. A moment later and the forest vanished, eaten away by a wave of buildings and roads.

'What brings you here then?' The wizard asked, turning away from the view, inexorably reeled in.

Pilgrim regarded him for a moment, 'You seem an honest man.'

'I try to be.'

'Then perhaps I should be honest with you. I am looking for a rather rare manuscript, for … a friend of mine. I've been given to understand that someone stole it, and I have been employed to find it. Discreetly,' He met the wizard's eyes steadily, impressing earnestness and reliability upon him.

'You're a private investigator?' the wizard asked, a faint look of surprise crossing his features.

'Something of the sort. The name's John Grey.'

'I am William Winchester. You're a muggleborn too then?' The wizard asked. 'I cannot say I expected to see many of us here.

'A half-blood, my mother was a witch, but she died when I was very young,' Pilgrim said. 'No, I suspect you're right. Most here look like purebloods, no-one else is quite so out of touch, don't you think?'

William smiled. 'You're right there. You think one of them stole it then?'

'Or paid for it to be stolen. You know what they're like, the richer purebloods, it's just a game to them,' Pilgrim said, giving a dismissive shake of his cane towards them. 'One of them gave me this limp when I was working for him. Shot me in the leg with a curse when he was hunting. Shouted at me for getting in the way.'

'Typical,' William snorted. 'Sometimes I wish I could just give them a taste of the real world.'

'You and me both,' Pilgrim hesitated, testing the charm on William, 'you could help me though, that'd take one of them down a peg at least.'

William scratched his cheek in thought for a moment, 'I suppose it can't do any harm, and if they did steal something then it's our duty to do something about it … I don't know much about this set, but the wizard over there, the one in tweed, with that ridiculous monocle. He's the mind behind all of this. Avoided getting his name on any of the news about it, but he organised it. And to get some of the things here up for auction he's got to have a hand in some very pretty pies.'

'You know him?' Pilgrim asked. 'Any idea what he's like?'

'A little. He's a fairly brash fellow, not so bad for a pureblood. Likes people to be up-front, rude even. Sort of gives an odd respect to people willing to speak their mind. He was a Slytherin, and he likes to make a profit, but I don't know much beyond that. He stood a round or two for most of the crew who did the decoration, I heard.'

'Not a bad man then,' Pilgrim mused. 'Anyway,' he clapped William on the shoulder, 'you're a solid lad.' With that he stepped away, leaving the dazed young man wondering who he'd been speaking to, and about what. He turned back to the window, smiling to himself at a compliment he could not quite remember.

Pilgrim crossed the floor slowly, taking his time to examine the artefacts on display: the potion recipes of the witch Agnieszka Jaja; a page from Orderic Vitalis's _Historia Ecclesiastica_ with an enchanted illumination; and a battered pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses. He came to a stop beside the last, where the wizard in tweed was standing, dabbing at a sweating brow with a handkerchief.

'You must be our anonymous host,' Pilgrim said, holding out a thick, creamy business card, 'forgive me, but I couldn't help but introduce myself. I am Sarpe Intuneric. A mutual friend pointed you out to me.'

'Frederick Latimer,' the wizard said taking the card, 'at your service. I must say, I didn't expect anyone to give away my little secret,' he added jovially, 'I was rather hoping to reveal it as a surprise at the end.'

'Oh, I don't think the news is spread far or fast, I was very insistent.'

'Really? I'm flattered.'

'Firstly, I wanted to compliment you on the splendour of the setting, absolutely marvellous, but secondly I must confess I was desperate to insult you.'

Latimer blinked. 'You wanted to insult me?'

'Oh yes, the thing is, I am frankly appalled by the objet d'art you have on display here. You have a reputation for exquisite taste. These pieces are practically brik-a-brak,' Pilgrim said haughtily. 'Come now, there must be a second auction, one for the more … exclusive items.'

'You manage to insult me, praise me, and possibly accuse me in the space of a breath!' Latimer exclaimed, and then he gave a hearty laugh as he pocketed the business card. 'The true Durmstrang spirit. I see why I couldn't place your accent. You're a collector then? A professional by the looks of things.'

'Yes, my employer has sent me here in search of some rather rare manuscripts,' Pilgrim said, plucking two glasses of wine form a passing waiter. 'May I offer you a drink?'

'By all means, thank you. Anything particular you are looking for?' Latimer said as he took the proffered glass of wine.

Pilgrim raised an eye at him, 'With the risk that you might scoop the prize from under my nose? Mr Latimer, I respect your reputation, but I am afraid I do not know you well.'

'Wise, but I give you my word of honour as a gentleman, I merely offer my assistance. We get visits from our European cousins far too rarely these days for it to be profitable to deceive them.'

'Your little war is off-putting to visitors, I think,' Pilgrim said, 'though I must concede I have not been overly troubled by it.'

Latimer flinched slightly, 'It's an unpleasant business. Hopefully it will all be over soon. This evening is a space away from all of that. Up here only a handful of people know our route, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself couldn't break in or out of this ship's defences. Splendid workmanship.'

'That is a comfort. I have no desire to meet this dark lord. He sounds, how do you say? "A thoroughly unpleasant fellow."' Pilgrim sidestepped as a group of witches in ballgowns made from effervescent fabrics passed by. Somewhere in a higher deck a string quartet was beginning to play.

Latimer smiled weakly, 'Perhaps I could help you find a contact, if the item you were after is particularly rare. I only charge a small fee …'

'My dear Mr Latimer, if you could put me in contact with the owner of this item you could charge a generous fee. My employer pays me a finder's fee on delivery, a percentage of the cost of particularly recherché items, as well as my usual rates. Whilst I have no desire to short change him, I have no reason to be miserly on his behalf,' Pilgrim said warmly, accepting the change in topic. 'Did you really put all of this together by yourself?'

'Almost, the Ministry Archivists had a hand. Reason why most of the stuff is so damn tame.'

'The archivists? I am not sure I have met them,' Pilgrim said, looking around as if expecting to catch sight of them.

'Hope and Ravenhill, though the old girl herself couldn't make it,' Latimer said. 'Or rather she couldn't bear the thought of this lot being sold. She spent at least as much time cataloguing everything here and copying it as she did actually helping. Hope was more use, bright one there, waste of talent leaving her sitting amongst all those dusty old papers.'

'Indubitably,' Pilgrim took a moment to look over Latimer, making it as obvious as possible that he was assessing him. 'Very well, Mr Latimer, you do have a reputation, a good one. My employer was particular interested the late Ms Carrow's estate. He and I were wondering whether she had managed to squirrel anything interesting away.'

Latimer puffed out his cheeks and blew the air through his moustache. 'Not much old chap. Carrow had some unsavoury acquaintances. No-one wants to touch her stuff in case it annoys the wrong witch or wizard, if you catch my drift. The archivists might go through it, but with a pretty light touch. They're probably the only people who have all the necessary resources for anything really dark there.'

'Unsavoury acquaintances? I am afraid I do not "catch your drift".'

'No, I suppose you wouldn't. Her cousins were Death Easter, and between you and me there were a fair few rumours going the rounds that she was behind a theft from the archives. The newspapers barely covered it, so you might not have heard,' Latimer said, fumbling with his monocle.

'Ah. My employer must have done. He was particularly interested in anything she might have acquired recently. Do you know what it might have been?'

Latimer shifted uneasily, 'I'd prefer not to say. It was _The Matrix_ , you know the one.'

'Ah. You believe the Death Eaters and Carrow may have conspired to steal it, and then they fought over the spoils. Our last dark lord used that book himself in the Last Great War. I can see why your new one would like it,' Pilgrim said, setting down the remainder of his glass on a side table. He looked at Latimer waiting for an answer.

'Not necessarily. Carrow couldn't have done it herself, and she wasn't a bad sort, just a bit easily led, but she had the best connections. My money would be that she was being used. Possibly by the book itself. Now, of course it's vanished.'

'Come now, a clever man like you? You have an ear to the ground. The resources to put something like this theft together must have left a mark,' Pilgrim pressed.

'You flatter me, but I know nothing about it,' Latimer said, voice trembling. His hand shook, and he split his wine. 'Waiter!' He called, before turning back to Pilgrim with a whisper, 'The people who might know anything are dropping like flies. I know nothing, and I advise you to know nothing too.'

The waiter arrived silently and vanished the spilt wine before drifting back into the crowd. Pilgrim regarded Latimer for a moment. 'You are right, of course. Perhaps we should turn the conversation to happier matters.'

'I'm afraid I must be going actually, a lot of people to meet and greet. I promised to have a drink with the muggle's Defence Secretary. Odd chap. Not usual for a wizard to enter muggle politics, but no laws against it after all, and it seems to be working out for him …'

'Mr Intuneric! Fredrick! What a delightful surprise,' Per appeared through the crowd. She gave a light kiss to each of Latimer's cheeks and a genteel nod to Pilgrim. Latimer smiled sheepishly and shook his head a little, as if dazed. 'Do you two know each other?' She asked brightly.

'Not at all, we were just _introducing_ ourselves really,' Pilgrim supplied.

'Yes, of course, introductions,' Latimer said, his pupils dilating rapidly. 'My dear gal, this is Mr Intuneric …'

'Oh, we've met, Mr Latimer,' Pilgrim purred. 'Though I didn't anticipate meeting the lady amongst dusty collectors.'

'Come now, Fredrick, I think you might have been having a little too much of the elf-wine,' Per laughed. 'Let me find you seat. The auction ought to start soon.'

Pilgrim was wondering whether to follow them when there was a gasp from the back of the room. A glass shattered. He spun on his heel, doubling over and grunting as pain shot through his abdomen at the twist of movement. By the time he had straightened up the crowd was silent. Across the window fiery letters, in a foreign script, appearing. They gleamed against the dark sky beyond. Each character was drawn, as if by an invisible hand.

'What does it say?' One wizard asked. 'What language is that?'

'Aramaic, I think,' someone replied.

Now that the original shock had vanished a babble of voices spread across the room. Then, at once, it suddenly cut off as a high, cold voice rang out. 'Mene mene tekel upharsin: you have been weighed in the balance, and you have been found wanting.'

Despite himself Pilgrim turned around along with the crowd. He was in time to see the last of the obsidian fall away from the statue at the head of the stairs. Lord Voldemort stepped from the ruins of the display case.

'Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this evening's entertainment.'


	9. Chapter 9

**The Uninvited Guest**

Lord Voldemort stood, looking down upon them. A twisted mockery of a priest regarding his flock from the pulpit. Behind him stood a rank of waiters, their masks shifting as the crowd gaped in horror into the featureless white masks of the Death Eaters. There was a breathless hush.

A sickly bolt of light lanced towards Lord Voldemort from the crowd. He flicked it aside and stretched out his wand. A witch rose into the air. The crowd backed away from her, pressing back against the walls of the room. Lazily the Dark Lord tilted his wrist and the woman's arms were pulled taught as if crucified. She held her head up, glaring defiance at him. A thin smile curled over his lipless mouth and her robes ripped as barbed wires sliced through them. She screamed, pulling against the spell as bright, arterial blood rained down onto the white floor. Apart from her screams there was absolute silence. Then it was over. The wires pulled, and she was torn apart. Fleshy lumps fell to the ground. Through the ten seconds the execution had taken Lord Voldemort had not glanced over at her once.

Sobs and screams rang out as the crowd, previously stunned into silence, panicked. The Dark Lord held a finger to mouth and the sounds were stolen from their lips. Men and women grasped at their throats, desperate for any sound.

'Good evening. I apologise for the interruption to the festivities. Before we proceed, would anyone else care to chance their hand against me?'

The room froze.

'Not even Dumbledore? I had head he was here, and yet the champion of this old, decadent, decaying order seems too afraid to show his face. For the rest of you, I commend you for your wisdom. Now, I am here to offer you a choice. You may stand with me, and I shall not find you wanting for your reticence until this point. You will be returned safely to your homes, and in time you will be raised to glory, as is your just dessert.

'For those who will not … do not fear. I will not harm you. I will leave you safely on this ship,' he said, gesturing with long fingers to their surroundings, 'to complete your journey. The treasures intended to line the pockets of the Ministry will be liberated and given to those in need.' The skeletal face looked down on the crowd for a long moment and then he extended a pale hand, reaching out to them as if to raise them up. Enraptured the crowd leant inwards.

Pilgrim took his opportunity and sidestepped, trying to leave the room as quietly as possible. Hands grasped him, holding him tightly. Lord Voldemort's gaze flicked down to him. 'Bring him to me.'

Hands passed Pilgrim forwards through the crowd. They held him tightly, gripping him so that he could not have resisted. He submitted to them, making himself as limp and loose-limbed as possible. Eyes followed him, until he was deposited at the Dark Lord's feet. He steeled himself.

'You may speak,' Lord Voldemort said, his voice was faintly mocking. 'Why, pray were you trying to leave?'

Pilgrim kept his eyes on the ground and let his voice quaver as he spoke, 'Forgive me, my Lord. I am but a humble visitor from a distant land. I wished no insult to you, but I feared that I …'

'Would come to harm,' Lord Voldemort said for him. He spoke for the audience, 'Arise, no harm will come to you by my hand. Behold, I raise you up,' and he reached out a hand. A curl of the fingers and Pilgrim's limbs straightened so that he stood once more. The Dark Lord towered benevolently over him, a slight plinth and an extra few inches of height setting him above Pilgrim.

'Thank you, my lord.'

Lord Voldemort turned to a Death Eater and spoke in an undertone, 'Take him and any others who choose not to join us below decks. I do not want to _see_ them harmed.'

A tall Death Eater bound his hands before ushering him to the side. The crowd below was dividing. A small huddle was being herded to one side by a group of Death Eaters, whilst the majority had chosen to kneel. Rich cloth pooled around them on the floor. He waited patiently as those who had no knelt were separated into groups of five. Their hands were bound with silver chains. Then escorted by three Death Eaters to each group they were led away below the decks, one group at a time.

As he was marched out of the gleaming reception rooms into a service corridor plated with burnished copper Pilgrim could hear the glass display cases behind them shattering under curses. The party of prisoners was led to a small room. There the Death Eaters prodded them until they had lined up, facing the wall. Pilgrim flicked his fingers, trying to break the bonds with a spell, but his magic was beyond his reach.

'Hold on,' one of the party guests objected, 'what're you doing? He promised we weren't to be harmed …'

'By him,' a Death Eater replied.

Pilgrim braced himself for the inevitable curse when there was a polite cough from the doorway. Twisting his neck, he saw the Death Eaters begin to turn.

There was a short sigh. The smell of ash on the wind, and a near simultaneous sound of three bodies hitting the deck. The chain around his wrists dissolved and he brought them down, rubbing them to bring back sensation. Pilgrim turned around. Dumbledore stood in the doorway, finishing modifying the Death Eater's memories.

'Follow me, everyone. You will need to join the others. Did anyone not have a drink earlier?' Dumbledore asked, his tone serious. No one raised their hands. 'A pity. They seem to have been drugged with a magic suppressant. Nothing to worry about, your craft will come back to you, but it may take a little time. Now, when you leave here, turn left, and left again. Then go down the stairs and turn right until you find the others. It should only take four or five right-hand turns.' He passed out the wands the Death Eaters had pocketed.

'I'll go with you,' Pilgrim said.

'Can you still fight without a wand?' Dumbledore asked, surveying him over the half-moon spectacles. 'I cannot take you with me if you will be a liability.'

Pilgrim twisted the head of his cane to the left and instead of a wand drew out a rapier. A cross-guard in the German style blossomed around his hand. Steel running like water. 'Well enough. I only took a few sips of the wine. I imagine my power will return shortly.'

'Good. Let us go then. Does anyone know how many more groups there are?'

'Two, I think,' one wizard said. 'Look why don't we take the robes and masks, we could pass as them …'

'Because, contrary to appearances, Voldemort,' there was collective shudder, 'is not entirely foolish. The masks are transparent to marked Death Eaters, provided a marked Death Eater wears them. They may not remember the faces, but they would know us as imposters.'

The group followed Dumbledore silently after that. Subdued and shaken. When they went their separate ways, there were more than a few whimpers at the thought of leaving the safety of Dumbledore's side. Pilgrim matched Dumbledore's swift stride as they headed down another corridor in the labyrinth, following a small globe of light, which bobbed before them.

'You didn't drink anything then?' Pilgrim asked.

'I never do at these events. I prefer to keep a clear head,' Dumbledore said in an undertone. 'You _are_ experienced in the use of a sword?'

'I've wandered long enough to pick up a few skills for when wands fail. The girl …'

'If I had revealed myself it is doubtful anyone in the ship would have survived. Voldemort would have used them to distract me. I will bear her death on my conscience for the rest of my days. As it is he decided to execute you all quietly, presumably to make everyone rather more pliable … hush,' they had rounded a corner and they could see three Death Eaters leaving a room, shutting the door behind them.

Fury flashed across Dumbledore's feathers. Pilgrim took a step backwards, involuntarily. The old wizard moved in a blur. The Death Eaters were hurled against the pipes which lined the walls. Steam flooding out and coiling in constricting ropes around the black robed wizards. A heartbeat later they were unconscious. The door to the room, made from solid bronze, was ripped from its hinges as Dumbledore marched towards it.

Bodies lay against the far wall. Their chests rose and fell slowly. Dumbledore knelt, running his fingers over the brow of the first of them.

'Well?' Pilgrim asked.

Dumbledore stood. His face was frim. 'We must hurry. They are not dead, but their minds have been stripped away.' A gesture and a whip of silver light slashed over the fallen Death Eaters. 'That should do. They will remember little and go about their business. Now, onwards.'

They took the corridor practically at a run. Pilgrim gritted his teeth against the pain. He could feel wetness seeping from his side. They came upon the Death Eaters and their prisoners suddenly, almost crashing into them as they rounded a corner. In the tight space Pilgrim's sword was no use, so, dropping it, he knocked a Death Eater's wand aside with one hand. The other stuck with lightning speed: throat, temple and solar plexus. By the time Pilgrim turned around Dumbledore had finished with the other two and directed the prisoners away.

Dumbledore looked down on the dazed and retching Death Eater coldly. A small wave of his hand and the man was floating before him, his mask ripped aside. 'What is your plan here?' Dumbledore asked.

The Death Eater tried to spit at him, but the gobbet of phlegm merely hovered in the air before dropping to the ground.

'I will not lie to you,' Dumbledore said, and his calm was worse than any fury. 'It's Bulstrode, isn't it? I remember you. You were never exceptional. Never gifted, except perhaps at small cruelties. My friend, on the other hand could be quite inventive. And even if he feels reluctant I am sure that he will follow, to the letter the instructions I gave him earlier. Would you like that?'

Bulstrode's eyes flicked to Pilgrim, who gave a cheerful smile. Pilgrim was saved from wondering what Dumbledore had instructed him to do by the shake of Bulstrode's head. The little man's eyes were bulging in fear.

'Good, now you're going to tell me everything you know. If you lie, I will know,' said Dumbledore, and his eyes were like ice.

It did not take long for Bulstrode to tell them everything. Not least because he knew very little. He was not even privy to who was on the mission, beyond an idea that there were only two or three members of the inner circle of Death Eaters present. The attack was, he believed, as it seemed: Lord Voldemort intended to line his own coffers with the items from the auction and, Bulstrode thought, leave the ship afterwards, leaving the horror of finding a score of mindless guests on board an aimlessly floating ghost-ship. Pilgrim privately doubted the plan was quite that simple, but there was no point in contradicting the Death Eater.

'And how do you all plan to leave the ship?' Dumbledore asked.

'The emergency portkeys,' Bulstrode babbled.

Dumbledore nodded and then knocked the man out. 'Very well, we need to move quickly. Once I have returned these three to them, they shall, I imagine, be ready to leave. They will probably leave some guards behind to finish whatever Voldemort intends, but I suspect most of them will have gone.'

'What did you want me to do, if you left me alone with him?' Pilgrim asked as Dumbledore finished modifying the Death Eater's memories and slipped into an ante-chamber.

'Why, nothing at all. I did not give you any instructions, after all. _He_ did not need to know that though,' Dumbedore said quietly, 'and I think they are gone. Now, we shall ascend to the winter-room together. From there make your way to the spell-bags which keep us aloft; I shall make my way to the engines to ensure that Voldemort cannot easily incinerate us. The Death Eaters will have removed the emergency portkeys, but those who are still on here ought to be carrying at least one between them. That must be our secondary objective. After that we will secure the control car.'

Pilgrim nodded and began to follow Dumbledore, gliding silently through the corridors. His sword hung loosely in his hand. The copper plating of the passage seemed to glow as their witch-light passed by, bouncing blurred reflections around them. When they reached the hatch into the winter hall they halted. Dumbledore drew a complicated patter in the air and waited. Whatever the intended result he seemed satisfied. A gentle tap of his wand and the hatch swung open. They climbed out.

The room had lost some of its finery. Where it had seemed like pristine snow it was now as if the thaw had begun. Shattered glass from the display cases covered the floor. Shawls, the broken stems of wineglasses and crushed canapés lay where they had fallen. Bloody pulp still stained the white. Pools of liquid, some alcoholic in origin, some less savoury, lay on the floor, vibrating in sync with the engines.

Latimer was sat, slumped beside the case where Pilgrim had last seen him. Picking his way across the floor Pilgrim checked the wizard's pulse. There was nothing, only a faint hint of froth at the lips and wide, staring eyes, tinged with yellow.

'Someone poisoned him,' Pilgrim remarked, to no-one in particular. 'Amid all this someone took the time to murder him quietly.'

'The same someone who unlocked this cabinet?' Dumbledore observed from just behind him. 'When all the others were broken someone unlocked lot 67,' he took the auction catalogue from a voluminous fold of his robe. 'Namely, a pair of spectacles owned by Dr John Dee and used to read Enochian. Still, we may ponder this new mystery later. For now, we have work to do.'

Pilgrim nodded and stood. By the time he had done so Dumbledore had already vanished on his own mission. The spells which held the airship aloft were, Pilgrim was fairly sure, to be found in the upper reaches of the ship. Therefore, without further guidance to be found he climbed upwards, taking the corners slowly. He was all too aware that even a poor wizard would have the advantage unless he managed to surprise them. As it was though the ship was almost eerily silent and empty. With the broken glass littering the floor and the faint wind charms that blew through the chambers it felt like a derelict palace. Outside the clouds scudded by, red with the reflected glow from the cities below.

It was only when he entered the autumnal chamber that things began to go wrong. It was a small bar at the uppermost level of the hull. Gusts of wind floated crimson leaves through the air. Batting one aside Pilgrim stepped forwards and glass crunched underfoot. There was a long moment of silence as he waited for anyone to come to investigate. Then, as he took a step forwards, a Death Eater opened a door on the other side of the room.

The Death Eater stared. Pilgrim, however, moved. He closed the ground between them in three long strides and lunged. The Death Eater leapt backwards, conjuring a shield. The sword struck sparks from the charm.

Pilgrim advanced raining blows on the spell. The shield barely held. Silver cracks running through the translucent bubble. As Pilgrim pulled back for another blow the Death Eater took his chance. A tongue of flame licked from his wandtip. Pilgrim parried. Conjured flame glanced off the tempered steel.

'How?' The Death Eater grunted, throwing himself to the side as the sword struck again.

'I spent,' Pilgrim spat, his rapier cut the air as his opponent backed away, 'thirty years forging this.' He parried a curse. His riposte pushed the other man back further, into the corner. The blade sliced upwards the tip cutting deeply into the wizard's forearm.

' _Reducto_!' Pilgrim leant casually to the side. The red light shot over his shoulder. Behind him a bottle of brandy shattered.

'You'll have to do better than that,' he said, driving the blade into the Death Eater's leg, eliciting a cry of agony.

'Give in,' the man panted through gritted teeth. 'There are too many of us. We'll let you go …'

'Out of a window?' Pilgrim asked. He cut upwards, severing the wizard's fingers and bisecting the man's wand.

The Death Eater stared in shock at his hand. Then Pilgrim dashed the pommel of his rapier against the man's head and he collapsed. Pilgrim drew back the sword, about to run the Death Eater through, and hesitated, hand shaking. He lowered the sword. Despite himself he ripped off a strip of cloth and bound it in a tourniquet around the man's wrist. He added a few bonds to make sure that even if the Death Eater were to wake up he would not be going anywhere quickly. Then, bemused at his own behaviour, he set off through the doorway and up the ladder, into the belly of the airship.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy waited on the walkway between the spell bags. His underlings were fraying the enchantments which kept the magic stable. He was watching as Pilgrim stalked into the belly of the airship. He noted the sword the wizard carried. It was a sensible idea amongst the spell bags which were hung within the envelope. One stray cantrip and the entire airship would be swallowed by eldritch fire, or worse.

'Carry on with your task,' Lucius commanded his minions. 'I shall deal with this. Leave if necessary.' He drew his wand, conjuring a blade of filigreed steel. Failure would not be tolerated by the Dark Lord. It would be better to deal with the problem personally than allow it to get out of hand.

He walked down the steps to meet the wizard. The man was waiting on the lower walkway, out of the line of fire from any Death Eaters who might be tempted to chance their luck. Lucius tossed aside his cloak and mask, freeing his arms and sight. The wizard looked up, watching him with an expression of mild indifference. Blood stained the point of the man's blade.

'Good evening,' Lucius said, with a shallow bow.

'Has it been?' The wizard asked, raising an eyebrow. 'I felt the mood was a bit of a killer earlier.'

'I apologise for any distress you might have endured. If you could tell me your name I will ensure it is as short-lived as possible,' Lucius said, taking a couple of light swings with his weapon, testing the weight.

'Any particular reason?' The man asked.

'I believe one should always be introduced to those one is about to try to kill. My name is Lucius Malfoy.'

The man gave a small chuckle as if realising something, 'Of course. I thought I recognised you. They call me Pilgrim.'

Lucius regarded him, taking in the thin sheen of sweat on his brow. 'Charmed to meet you. Would you like a moment to rest? You look a little tired.'

'No, not at all. And I fear time is on your side. Shall we begin?'

'By all means.'

Their swords tapped together. Then the duel began. The wizard was on the offensive immediately. Driving forward with preternatural speed and ferocity. His body language was near perfectly controlled. Time and again Lucius barely turned aside the blade, reflexes rather than intent parrying the man's blade. The man was devilishly quick, never in range for Lucius' strikes. Each step a calculated move to draw Lucius into overreaching. Denying him the possibility Lucius retreated up the stairs.

Yet, it was evident as they reached the second landing that the ferocity of the first attack had been a brutal gamble. Pilgrim was sweating profusely, skin pallid. His hand was pressed to his side. His advance slowed. Now, as they reached the landing Lucius had the advantage. Pilgrim was driven into a retreat. He circled though so that now he was being driven up the stairs. Lucius' low cuts were knocked aside. Steel flashed a hair's breadth from his face.

Then, at the top of the stairs, Lucius threw himself forwards. He pressed his weight against the wizard. Their swords locked between them. Lucius drove his fist against his foes' wounded flank. Pilgrim bent backwards over the edge of the railing, snarling with pain.

There was a shout from above and Lucius' eyes were dragged downwards. Dumbledore had entered the hull. Pilgrim seized the opportunity and pushed him backwards. The movement was followed by a downward slash which sliced through Lucius' doublet. A ribbon of pain stretched across his chest. He hurled himself back into the fight, launching a swift series of blows. Pilgrim barely parried. One thrust drove deeply into the man's shoulder and his face went white with pain.

There was a hurried chanting above and then the soft ripple of a portkey activating. Lucius reached into his own breast pocket, pulling out a curse stone and his portkey. Pilgrim's eyes widened as he saw the stone. He threw himself forwards, onto Lucius' sword. His hand grasped the detonator and wrenched it from Lucius' grip as he fell backwards, slipping off the platform.

With a curse Lucius ripped the trigger from the portkey and vanished.

* * *

Pilgrim woke up gradually. He winced as he felt the freshly healed stab wound from Lucius' sword. Luckily the blade itself had melted into nothing. Although it was still present the wound in his side seemed to have stopped bleeding too. He looked around. Things seemed calmer.

A woman sat cross legged barely out of arms reach. She was flicking something between her fingers. It looked like a playing card. Her head was bent, and he could not see her face.

'Excuse me, but where is Dumbledore?' Pilgrim asked, a little unsteadily as he sat up.

'Close by.'

'Is that you, Per?' Pilgrim said, frowning. The voice sounded familiar. 'How come you're still on the ship?'

'I was in one of the first groups rescued.'

'No, I don't think that's it,' Pilgrim said, standing up. Things were definitely calmer. So calm that there was no other noise in the room apart from the sound of his own blood in his ears. 'I saw the people in those groups. You weren't among them.'

'You must have missed me.'

'I don't miss people,' Pilgrim said firmly. 'In fact, much as I'd like to talk to Per about a few things, I don't think you're her.'

The thing looked up at him. It certainly looked like Per. Yet, there was something indefinably wrong about it. 'And how did you work that out?'

'You're not breathing. Living people tend to breath. Per is, or was, most definitely alive. No matter what else she was. Also, this,' he waved his hand to gesture around him. 'This is all wrong. You're missing the details. There's no sign of tools slipping, or the wear or people walking here. What are you?'

The thing looked up at him. 'I am an admirer of yours. A friend, if you'll have me. I have come to make you the preliminaries of an offer. I won't take your time until you feel free to oblige me. However, let me just say that I can offer you all the knowledge you want, the knowledge you need to rescue him. To save yourself.'

'I wonder what you might want in return. Anyone who believes that they can get something for nothing is a fool. I am not a fool,' Pilgrim snapped. 'Now, get out of my head.'

The thing looked at him steadily. 'I will leave you to consider it but remember where there's a carrot there's also a stick. I have patience, but you are running on borrowed time. In fact, as a show of good faith I'll tell you what is about to happen to the airship. Maybe I'll even drop in to see it happen. Tick-tock goes the clock.'

* * *

Pilgrim woke up with a start, taking great breaths of air. A warm hand was pressed against his forehead. 'Calmly now, calmly,' said Dumbledore. The old wizard's eyes were troubled, and he was kneeling down beside Pilgrim. 'I honestly cannot believe that you are alive after that. I thought that you would be dead for certain.'

The metal struts of the airship stretched overhead once more. Pilgrim sat bolt upright. 'We need to get out of here.'

'I'm glad you think so,' Dumbledore said, drawing back a little. 'Be calm. I have stalled the decay of the enchantments, and you seem to have prevented them from blowing us up. Though I imagine that was a last resort.'

'No, you don't understand,' Pilgrim said, scrabbling to his feet, 'the ship is set to crash. They've rigged it. We're about ten minutes away from smashing into Warwick and revealing the magical world.'

'We haven't a moment to lose then,' Dumbledore replied, standing up. 'Might I enquire as to how you come to know this?'

'Malfoy was mocking me before he threw me over the side. I imagine he thought I would not survive,' Pilgrim said, limping towards the entrance to the rest of the ship as fast as he could. His sword leapt from the floor where it had fallen returning to his hand, along with its sheath. Twisting it again he drew out a wand instead.

'I'm glad to see you have your magic again. I have sent as many of the others home as I could with the emergency portkeys, but there are still four others remaining. I cannot make a portkey from here, nor apparate. There are passwords and keys which I do not possess,' Dumbledore said as they hurried through the ship.

Pilgrim nodded brusquely. He almost ran down the steps into the reception rooms. William Winchester and three others whom Pilgrim did not recognise were waiting at a table, slowly drinking a bottle of brandy. The Death Eater Pilgrim had incapacitated was tied up beside them.

'Forgive us, Professor, but we decided it was unlikely that we would get our magic back before we crashed, so we decided to make the best use of the time we had,' said one of them. His voice was calm and collected, with only a hint of a tremor.

'Whilst I commend your fortitude, I suggest that a more practical activity might be trying to survive this,' Dumbledore said. 'Mr Pilgrim and I intend to enter the control car in the gondola and prevent any disaster. Would anyone be willing to try to help us?'

William stood up. 'I am not quite ready to give up yet. Lead on, Professor. Gentlemen, madam,' he said with a curt nod to his companions. 'It has been delightful to spend a little while in your company. I hope to see you in better circumstances shortly.'

'I cannot help but think that things are more complicated than they appear,' Pilgrim said as they strode through the ship. 'But the clouds are beginning to lighten.'

'I don't think I understand,' William said, trotting to keep up.

'You might not quite grasp the significance. You were not there for much of it, but Voldemort almost certainly had inside help. Someone arranged for this to happen. Someone helped the Death Eaters infiltrate the staff. Someone got him on board. Someone with access to the cases stole something whilst the chaos of his arrival was going on,' Pilgrim swung himself down a service ladder, wincing at the impact as he hit the bottom. 'The number of people who could have had access are limited. In turn that limits the pool of suspects for another business. I would not be surprised if that same person was not the one who took advantage of the raid on Azkaban to take the _Matrix_.'

'It seems fairly possible, though Voldemort has many spies. It would be unwise to imagine that all of our problems are connected,' Dumbledore mused. William meanwhile merely looked bewildered.

'I would agree, if Latimer hadn't been killed, immediately after speaking to me about the _Matrix_. About how people who spoke up were dying right, left and centre. His death was a warning, a message. As much as not breaking that case was. They could have covered their tracks, but they _want_ us to know that they don't care we're after them,' Pilgrim said, and halted in front of a large, secure steel door. 'Is this it?'

'Yes,' William said, 'the control car is just beyond. The door won't be easy to budge though. I imagine they've reset the passwords since I was last here.'

'That will not be a problem,' said Dumbledore. He raised his wand and the steel parted like the skin of an orange.

The control car was a moderately sized room, neatly ordered with a set of incomprehensible knobs and dials. At least incomprehensible to Pilgrim. William seemed to know exactly what they meant. The only sign that anything untoward had happened was that the room was practically awash with blood.

Pilgrim grimaced as the carpet under their feet oozed red liquid with each step. There was the sound of retching behind him and a faint apology from William.

'So, can we stop it, or redirect it?' Pilgrim asked.

William ran his hands over the dials. 'I think there might be a way. At least to make sure it doesn't crash into Warwick. At the moment though they've locked the course. It'll strike the spire of St Mary's, and if we try to pull out early the ship will probably explode. If it hits the spire though the entire system of illusions which hides the wizard streets there will come down. Worse, the muggles will _see_ it come down.'

'So, what can we do?'

'Do we have any way off the ship?' William asked, still checking the dials. Below them the streets of the county town were becoming swiftly larger.

'Neither portkeys or apparition will work,' Dumbledore admitted, 'and sadly we cannot fly out of here.'

'I have a way,' Pilgrim admitted reluctantly. 'I can create a gateway, but not for long. We'll need to get through as quickly as possible.'

'Mr Pilgrim, my estimation of you has risen. I cannot say I expected you to own to any such abilities,' Dumbledore said. 'William, would you call the others down here?'

'Certainly, Professor,' William tapped a panel on the control board and spoke clearly. 'Would all those onboard hurry to the control car. We have a way out. You may reply to us.'

There was the hiss and click of static. Nothing else came through. Pilgrim felt a chill run down his spine and patted his pocket for the comforting presence of the card and its case. It was gone. He felt his stomach fall away. He turned to the door, he drew his wand over the steel, resealing it.

'I don't think we are as alone on this ship as I thought,' he said, pulling the curse stone out of his pocket. 'Dumbledore, watch that door. William, make sure that this doesn't touch down. We need to blow up the ship.'

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at him. 'Isn't that a bit of an overreaction?'

'Listen,' Pilgrim said.

Over the communications board there was a sound rising. It was a low humming, a sound as if dozens of voices were rising and falling in a lullaby together. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

'That … that doesn't sound good,' William whispered, and turned off the communications. The humming continued.

'We need to make sure whatever is on here doesn't get off,' Pilgrim said. 'Trust me on this. My instincts don't lie about such things. Check for life signs if you need to.'

Dumbledore cast a charm and waited. There was no answering sign of life beyond the three of them. 'It would seem that you are correct, Mr Pilgrim. Though I must admit to a certain curiosity as to what is making that sound.'

'I think it's a curiosity we can do without fulfilling,' Pilgrim said. 'Now, William, how is it going?'

'I think I might have it. Give me the curse stone. I can rig it into the system to release as we leave,' William grunted from beneath the control panel. Pilgrim passed him the stone and William straightened up pulling on the controls so that the ship began to rise. 'Right, now, if you wouldn't mind creating your gateway? I'm afraid I told a little fib. The controls are jammed, they'll only work as long as I hold onto them, and if I let go … well we'll all go up anyway.'

'William,' Dumbledore sighed, somewhere between disappointment and admiration.

Pilgrim turned away drawing a doorway in the air. Golden lines cut into the air and the cabin behind them faded away, opening onto city of polished white stone. He put one foot through the gateway. 'You can try to come with us, William,' he offered.

'I think not. Someone ought to go down with the ship. She shouldn't die alone,' the young man said. 'She was a beauty.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Homecomings**

Dumbledore clasped William's shoulder in wordless thanks. If he despaired of the young man's choice he did not allow it to show. Then Dumbledore turned and followed Pilgrim through the doorway of light.

The city was silent, apart from the soft whisper of zephyrs. There was a scent of lemon trees. Pilgrim turned to watch as the gateway faded away behind Dumbledore. The door had opened into a white walled square.

Dumbledore turned in a slow circle examining his surroundings. 'I must confess I have never seen a place quite like this. It is reminiscent of Granada …'

'We aren't on Earth,' Pilgrim said. His eyes flicked backwards and forwards as he patted down his robes. Colour gradually drained from his face. 'I've been here before. It isn't safe, or rather, it's too safe. Where is the damn thing?'

A flash of boyish delight crossed Dumbledore's face. Then with a sigh he settled back to a graver expression. 'Magnificent, I must admit I never thought to see the day. Might I enquire as to how a place might be too safe? I would prefer not to impose upon our hosts, whomsoever they may be, of course.' He paused in the middle of inspecting a nearby orange tree, or something very similar, and looked at Pilgrim. 'You look as if you have lost something.'

'I … the card. You remember, the tarot card I had. I had it on the ship. I thought I must have just missed it before we came through …' Pilgrim turned back to where the doorway had been, eyes desperately searching the air as if there might be something there. His mouth moved wordlessly, he crumpled, sitting heavily on the ground.

'My dear boy, whatever is the matter?' Dumbledore asked, tearing his attention away from the murmuration of dark birds in the sky above.

'It's gone. I'm lost. Eight hundred years and I lose it in one bad day,' Pilgrim murmured to himself, head hanging low. 'That benighted, thrice-cursed creature. He knew this would happen, and now when I was so close …'

'Who might I enquire?'

'Death. I met him, it, once, a long, long time ago. We made a deal. So long as I had that card I was immune to his touch,' Pilgrim said his voice was broken and his face was empty of all feeling. 'Without it … I am lost. Damn this place! It draws words from you.'

For a few moments Dumbledore watched Pilgrim. He did not, he had to confess, know the man well enough to understand how best to help him. However, from what he had seen it seemed best to humour him and unlikely that platitudes or sympathy would be of use in bringing him back to himself. Dumbledore spoke evenly, 'Mr Pilgrim. I admit I find the idea that one might meet an anthropomorphic personification of Death hard to believe. However, those who live in glass houses should not throw stones I suppose, we are after all in another dimension, you say. On that note, I must ask can we retrieve this card whilst we are in this dimension?'

Pilgrim shrugged and then reluctantly shook his head.

'Then may I recommend that we focus on the problem in hand? We will, I imagine have a much better chance of recovering your charm in our own world rather than this one. I imagine that you enchanted the case?'

'Yes,' Pilgrim admitted.

'In which case is it conceivable that it would survive the Daedalus' destruction?'

'Probably.'

'Therefore, would it not be best to hurry now and save your concerns for another time? I can see this is difficult for you,' Dumbledore continued in a kindlier tone, 'but you and I both know that bowing to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune will do no good.'

Pilgrim opened and closed his mouth for a moment and then with an evident effort he brought himself back under control. 'To think I would be taking advice from Albus Dumbledore,' he muttered. 'Very well. However, if it is gone, I will not be responsible for my actions.'

'Then I shall,' said Dumbledore, gravely. 'Now, if I might repeat the question: in what way is this place too safe.'

'There are no memories of pain, hatred, suffering, anger,' Pilgrim answered, trying to focus on the matter in hand. 'The masters of this place will try to give you peace, if they can. Spend too long here and you might find it not only difficult to leave, but impossible to understand why you should.'

'And yet you have visited before, and emerged unscathed?'

'I had the card and I made a bargain. Do not think that I was some miser hoarding life. It might be partially true, but when you've lived as I have you need insurance. I've dealt with creatures that were more than men, whose mere voices could shatter minds,' Pilgrim answered, shaking himself free of his thoughts.

'I have been the friend of Nicholas Flamel for most of my life,' Dumbledore said with a hint of amusement. 'I might condemn the means, but not the philosophy, even if I disagree with it. So, must we find a wardrobe? Or is there another way out? Can you create another doorway?'

Pilgrim slid his wand inside the cane. He stood and brushed himself down before speaking, 'It is difficult. I forced that doorway open in extremis, and with some advice. If I tried again, I do not know what the consequences might be. To use a crude analogy the weak points between reality, curtains, rather than walls. Following the analogy, I might say that we just pushed our way through a supporting wall. Fortunately, I have an ally here, of sorts, they will know where the best place for us would be to leave from.'

'I believe I understand. In that case is there anything else that it would be advantageous for me to know?'

'Speak to no-one; eat nothing; try not to make eye contact; and use no magic. If you do have to speak, be honest. You do not want to draw the city's attention.' With that Pilgrim led the way out of the square and into the maze of the city. If he had a direction in mind it was not evident to Dumbledore.

The streets were covered in mosaics of blue and gold. Over everything lay white sand. The sand whispered around their ankles in the breeze. The narrow passages and arches quickly gave way to broader streets. Around them there was a constant hum, the faint strains of a great harmony, at the edge of hearing. Throughout the city, it seemed, voices were singing a mother's lullaby.

The wide streets were abandoned. The city seemed like some vast and perfect sea shell, emptied out by time and tied. Corkscrew towers of nacre curled upwards. Along the avenues green trees cast cool shade. Gradually Dumbledore began to see shadows moving. To begin with they were distant, barely discernible as they climbed far off steps. Then they grew closer, flitting down the streets, appearing at the windows of the houses.

He could practically feel the discomfort around Pilgrim: a knife's edge of tension. Yet, he found that he was calm. The air was filled with the soft hum of bees. Children laughed in the side streets. Always only to be seen in the corner of one's eye.

They crossed a culvert, babbling with rushing water, and they were in the city no longer. Instead there was a country village. Thatched cottages and white-washed walls. It was summer. Dumbledore could hear the birds singing in the trees. The sky was a perfect blue.

Pilgrim stopped in his tracks. His shoulders stiffened. Down the dusty village street, a girl was walking, her shadow skipping along beside her. She was fair haired, and a heartfelt smile split her gentle face at the sight of them. The smile of an old friend welcoming them home.

Dumbledore stepped towards her, the years falling away as he looked at her. 'Ariana …' he began, only for Pilgrim to step between them.

'No,' Pilgrim said, to both the girl and to Dumbledore. He turned to the girl, addressing her, 'Merlin help me, but you can't have him. Not yet. He has a job to do, and he isn't ready for this.'

The girl reached out a hand, opening her mouth to protest. Pilgrim turned to Dumbledore. 'You can't go with her. Remember, Voldemort's waiting. Remember everyone who has put their faith in you. If you go with her they'll eat your memories. You'll be gone.'

Dumbledore hesitated, looking at the girl over Pilgrim's shoulder. She stood, smiling up at him, her fingers playing with a plait. Her cornflower blue eyes blinked up at him. 'Harry will lead them,' Dumbledore murmured, 'he will do it better than I ever could, foolish old man that I am.'

'No. He can't. Not yet, he's too young. Voldemort will eat him alive. Possibly literally,' Pilgrim said firmly.

Dumbledore sidestepped, trying to reach around Pilgrim. 'Please, let me go. I am so very tired,' he said. There seemed no point in hiding it here, not now.

Pilgrim took him by the shoulders, fingers digging into him, 'Remember William, remember the girl? She died screaming. Are you going to let that go?'

The sense of peace shattered. Dumbledore shuddered, he still had work to do. The girl with Ariana's face was, however, still there. 'If you would not mind, could you explain how it is that you have my sister's face?' Dumbledore asked, his voice barely trembled.

'It's the only face I have,' she said, 'I am, or I believe I was, Ariana. Though I am better now.'

Pilgrim shrugged as Dumbledore's eyes turned to him. 'I had no loved ones for them to show me. It could be her, I wouldn't be able to tell you.'

Dumbledore turned back to the girl, who held out her hand to him. 'This is a cruel lie to show an old man,' he said, looking at her. 'Please …'

'We don't lie here,' she said softly, and her hand curled around his gnarled fingers as Pilgrim stepped warily out of the way. She looked towards Pilgrim. 'Don't worry. We won't take him, not if he wishes to go on by the long road. Still, it seems to me that a great deal of time has passed since I last saw him. I have missed him dearly. Might I walk with him for a while?'

Pilgrim scowled, bending down to look her in the eye. 'You'll lead us to the Watcher. No eating his memories, not even one. Not even to "help him",' he added. 'And only so long as he chooses.'

She nodded solemnly, and Pilgrim straightened up, his face relaxing slightly. Then her eyes turned up to Dumbledore's, blue meeting blue. 'Well Alby, can I come with you?'

Dumbledore took a deep breath and despite himself he squeezed her hand. 'Of course, my dear.' He looked at Pilgrim. 'Was that quite necessary?'

'The pilgrim doesn't really understand us,' Ariana said, mildly. 'He tries, but he thinks about everything the wrong way around.'

'I understand you well enough. You aren't all purity and light. Even if you were, light can blind as well as illuminate,' Pilgrim answered. 'I should just leave you both and carry on my way … I don't know why I martyr myself like this. Come on then.'

They said nothing in reply, and instead began to walk. Afterwards Dumbledore would look back and wonder if the had spoken as they walked, but if they had he could not remember what was said. There was a warmth about them, like the sleepy end of a Saturday in July. Dragonflies darted through the lanes as they wandered onward. The landscape blurred around them like watercolours in the rain. Whether the girl was Ariana or not seemed to matter less and less. The old sibling affection, broken a lifetime ago, was whole again.

At last they came to an iron-wrought gate into a great garden. The gate itself was open and a man sat beside it, half-asleep. He wore an old smock with muddy fingerprints on the hem and a tattered straw hat. He sat up as they approached, tipping his hat to Ariana. 'G'morning miss. Are these two with you?' His words did not fit the movements of his mouth, which spoke another language, though Pilgrim could not understand it.

'They are. They are just passing through.'

'Well, mind they don't make a mess,' the words said. The mouth whispered of ancient bonds and broken promises.

'Do you know where the Watcher is?' she asked.

He nodded and pointed to the left. The girl nodded and led them into the garden. She stooped every now and then to pick daisies, gradually knotting them into a long chain. She plaited the chain together with another, and another, until it was a rope of sorts. Her deft fingers never stopped moving. As the rope grew longer her shadow started to pick the flowers for her.

Green swards surrounded the trees which were dotted across the gardens. Silver bells chimed softly in the branches of an ash and the scent of pine needles hung in the air. All around them there was a sense of deep and abiding peace. As they came to the top of a ridge they caught sight of a figure sitting upon a limestone bridge which ran over a river.

As they descended the slope the figure changed, each step brought a new facet into focus: a young boy with fair hair, skimming stones; an elderly woman, straight backed and proud; a fisherman with a face like old leather; a young woman with skin the colour of peat and silver eyes. It was as if they were turning a kaleidoscope. Each figure was part of a single whole, but individual and never to be repeated. It stood as they approached, turning towards them.

The figure gave bow of greeting as they stepped onto the bridge. 'Ariana, Albus, and you, the pilgrim. How has your road proven?' It asked. Its voice was low and musical, humming with a cadence that was not human.

'Long and vexing, Watcher,' Pilgrim replied. 'At the moment it seems intent on leading me in circles. Could we speak privately, for a little?' Pilgrim asked the figure, shooting a glance at Dumbledore.

The Watcher looked to Dumbledore who gave a nod of acquiescence. 'If you would not mind,' the elderly wizard said, 'I think I should very much like to examine some of the trees you have here. Pomona has been encouraging me to take up horticulture for years. I believe that she would think it remiss of me if I did not take the opportunity to admire such an exquisite arboretum. I must evince a certain interest in the cupressus sempervirens you appear to have, or at least it appears to be some variety of cupressus.'

'Child, would you show Albus around? Do not stray too far,' the Watcher said, 'and the other trees are more fitting for you. The cherry trees on the hill are just blooming.'

Pilgrim and the Watcher waited a little while until their two companions were out of earshot before turning back to one another. Birds twittered from the trees. There was the gentle plop of a fish in the river.

'So,' Pilgrim began, 'you've got a rogue agent on the loose. At least I hope that she's rogue. One of the General's, I imagine. She called herself Erelah.'

'The General has managed to keep me in the dark before. Yet, the lower orders would struggle to keep themselves from my sight,' the Watcher said, gazing down into the waters. 'Why do imagine that she has betrayed us?'

'I found her with a small army of the malakhim, on Earth. I admit, at first, I thought someone had sent her after me, seeking an early repayment on our deal. However, she practically admitted that she wanted to devour the souls of the rest of the humans on the planet.'

The Watcher sighed. A wind gusted along the waters in sympathy. 'As we have told you before, we do not "eat the souls" of mortals. We nurture them, purify them.'

'I can't say that I think she is very interested in purifying anything,' Pilgrim said, a little dryly. 'Unless it's with fire.'

An expression which might have been pain passed across the Watcher's features. The waters rippled. 'I will seek the truth in this matter. If she is using the malakhim then she must have a gate, and allies amongst the lower orders. That they were able to hide any rumour of this from me is … disconcerting. However, it is not my most pressing concern: child, a shadow mantles you. What have you brought here?' The Watcher's eyes narrowed. Pilgrim flinched as he felt the concentration of vast presence settle onto him. The wind died around them. Absolute silence fell.

'Nothing. In fact, if anything, I've lost something. The card of Death is gone,' Pilgrim said, his voice hitching on the last word. 'I don't suppose …'

'That I could find the very object you planned to use to dodge your end of the bargain?' It asked. 'Do not try to speak to my heart. I can see you. Every speck of dirt upon your soul.'

Pilgrim met the Watcher's gaze unabashed. 'I was unconscious briefly before I came here, and when I awoke the card was gone.'

The world moved, and the Watcher was running its fingers through the river. Reality blurred around it. When it finished the watcher had always been kneeling by the river. It examined the glistening droplets as it raised its hand. 'Did you meet anyone when you were unconscious?'

'I did, though what they were I can't say for certain,' Pilgrim answered. He blinked, eyes struggling to adjust.

'May I examine you?' The Watcher asked. 'Permit me this and I will find Death's gift to you. This shadow alone shall be my prey, I will not steal from you.' It took his silence as assent and stood. Its body stretched and lengthened until it stood over him. It mantled him with arms which stretched around him like featherless wings. One bony hand reached down and pulled back Pilgrim's eyelids. It peered into him.

Pilgrim fought the urge to scream as the fingers brushed his eyeball. He was frozen on the spot. Wisps of cold fire slid over his skin. A tendril of alien thought stretched into his mind cautiously. It gently sifted through his recent memories. He closed his eyes, and still fingers of thought raked through him. They were gentle, but they spread and grew, choking all thought. Behind his eyelids he could see it, a creature with a thousand flaming eyes scrutinising him. Its long limbs stretched towards him, grasping him. Then it was gone, and he was kneeling on the grass by the river, panting.

The Watcher pulled away from him. Its features ran like melting wax. The skin and human shell sloughed away. A pillar of crackling white fire stretched upwards. The air smelt of roses and pines. Pilgrim's eyes spiked with pain. White vines of bone twisted upwards, growing and multiplying around it. Droplets of starlight ran down the flickering appendages which might have been arms.

The Corrupter, it spat in words like liquid fire.

Pilgrim gritted his teeth and raised his hands to his ears. 'Stop! Stop!' Blood was dripping from his nose and eyes.

There was a hiss of flame and then silence. Forgive, whispered a voice of ashes. You are still human.

'I take it from your reaction,' Pilgrim said, wiping away the blood, though he kept his eyes down, 'that you didn't like what you found?'

Shadow of shadows lies over you.

'And the card?'

Out of the corner of his eye Pilgrim saw the river change. At first there was a spot of blackness, like a drop of ink. Then it spread, growing and growing until the water was as smooth as a mirror and blacker than the night sky. At first it was empty and then small points of light burst into life within it. Pilgrim drew back further, his flesh breaking into goosepimples. A minute passed, and then two.

'Well?'

There was a soft slithering sound and the water returned to a normal river. Card is yours. The river …

Pilgrim nodded and knelt down again. He looked deep into the flowing water. At first it was empty and then, as he was about to ask what he was to do next, he saw the leather case which should have held the card bobbing in the water. He plucked it out. And he was standing, reaching into his pocket and drawing the case out from inside it. Some feet away the river flowed onward. He blinked, suppressing the sense of nausea at a movement which had never been made.

Let me explain, came the Watcher's voice. A whisper of wind in the rushes. You beheld the 'Matrix Aeternitatis'. Its touch lies on you like a pall. Your soul is … was damaged, shredded. You think us malevolent, but when my kin and I offered you the key to reach that world in exchange for your soul we intended to heal the damage you had caused to it. Out of pity.

'So, my soul was damaged, what of it?' Pilgrim snapped, cradling the case. 'I can still walk, talk and cast magic. What more do I need?'

There was a moments' silence. When you were confronted with that book your soul was weak: you were as vulnerable as a new born babe to a lioness. That thing was inspired by the eldest of my kin. He has many names: Adversary, Corrupter, Prince of Lies, the First, the King of Shadows, among other, older titles.

'I think I get the idea.'

He walked with you. Invisible since that moment, until you were granted a soul renewed …

'I'm sorry, what did you just say?' Pilgrim asked and for the second time in not so very long his skin prickled with dread.

The spear which wounded you, it burns in your mind. It is an ancient weapon. It should not have been on Earth. The Daughter of the Flame has much to answer for. For want of words which your language could express this in more clearly: it sewed your soul together. The wound you bear on your side is the physical trace of the damage which it is repairing. A tiny scratch compared to the scars on your essence.

'And what precisely are the consequences of having a soul forcibly grafted onto the rotting husk I presumably have?' Pilgrim said, as calmly as he could.

There was a pause as the Watcher presumably searched for words. If you were to try to split your soul, it and your body would shatter. The one who dealt you this blow may have hoped to prevent you from taking action by gifting you a conscience. The return of a conscience to a man like you could have rendered you catatonic. It is fortunate that the wounds upon your soul are so terrible that they will take time to heal, that you will have time to adapt.

'So, what happened after I was wounded?' Pilgrim asked, though he could already feel the answer coming.

There was whisper of sounds, and the Watcher's voice returned to something approaching human. It almost sounded apologetic. 'The shadow hid itself inside the gift from Death. When you were weak and wounded it took its opportunity to hide itself. Perhaps in the hope that you would be more pliable without the gift's reassurance.'

Pilgrim turned the case over in his hands. 'And then it gave me just enough information to persuade me to open a gate into this world,' he bowed his head. 'Is that what he wanted? A way into this world?'

The Watcher moved slowly, its movements almost natural. The air blurred slightly around its limbs. Its voice was gentle and kind. 'No. He cannot enter here, not yet. A trace of a shadow like that is powerless here, it hides inside the card. But it is a seed of something worse. Take it back to Earth and it would grow.'

'But what did it want here?'

'I cannot read my brother's mind. However, if there is one virtue he possesses it is patience. At the least he has used you to scar our defences,' the Watcher said, 'and now I must ask you to give me the card.'

'So, you can destroy it?' Pilgrim asked, his tone was mocking. 'Come, do you really think I would fall for that? A tale of an ancient foe and a few words of doom?'

'I cannot force you to hand it over,' the Watcher said softly. 'But I will offer you three gifts in compensation.'

'What are they?' Pilgrim asked cautiously.

'There is a room in the city in which the candles of men's lives burn. I will light the candles for you and tend them. As long as you have lived you may live again, unless accident or design cut your time short; enough time for you to pursue a new quest for immortality. Better than becoming a puppet for a creature who would hollow you out and leave you screaming for its own amusement.

'Secondly, I will close your wound. You will need your strength in the days to come. The damage to your soul will mend more slowly for it, but your flesh will thank you.

'Thirdly, I will give you token of my favour. Those who see it will know that I walk beside you. Until you betray me.'

'And in exchange I give you this card, which you claim is tainted?' Pilgrim said. He pursued his lips dubiously.

Do not test me, child of dust, the Watcher's eyes flared with burning light. Its words wrote themselves into Pilgrim's mind. You know I do not lie. Consider it a blessing I find you amusing. My kin are not all so forgiving.

Pilgrim shuddered again. He blinked rapidly, trying to restore his sight to normal again. 'Very well.'

There was a polite cough behind him. 'Ah, I see we are back again,' Dumbledore said. 'I must congratulate you, the way this landscape moves so that one finds oneself where one never expected to be is refreshing. I hope though that it is matched by a convenience of timing?'

'I think the timing is just what our friend was hoping for,' Pilgrim said bitterly. He looked at the card. It wriggled in his hand. He twitched in distaste and it slipped between his fingers, trying to flutter upwards. It might just have been the wind; if there were a wind.

The Watcher reached upwards, plucking the card from the air with a silver talon. It lowered the arm, talons melting back into three fingers. There was a burst of flame and the card turned to white ash and a wisp of black smoke. 'Now, Albus, I have promised a series of favours for your companion. What would you ask of me?'

'Whilst I am cognisant of the honour you do me, there is nothing I feel that I can ask for,' Dumbledore said.

'There will be no price, no debt,' the Watcher said gently, 'I will pay it if there is. You may request three things.'

Dumbledore examined the Watcher over his half-moon spectacles. His hand was still clasped around Ariana's. The Watcher met his faze evenly. For a few moments they stood like that. If words passed between them Pilgrim could not follow them. Then Dumbledore nodded, 'I am grateful. Then I would like to know: is this girl my sister?'

The Watcher looked at him, and for a moment Pilgrim thought that he could see tears in the being's eyes. 'She is what we saved when your sister left your world.'

'A copy then?'

'No, but I cannot suggest that she is as she was. People do change, even here,' the Watcher said carefully. 'If it can be managed you will join her here, some day.'

'Thank you, that is … that is enough for me.'

'Is there nothing else you want,' the Watcher asked, and it seemed a little confused. 'Humans normally desire something more. Consider the favours held in waiting for you then.'

'All we need is a way home,' Pilgrim interrupted. He stood to one side, leaning on his cane, his hand pressed against his side.

The Watcher nodded. A snap of its fingers and a chalice arose from the river, brimming with water. 'Before you go, drink from this, pilgrim. Your wound will be healed. Children, the world you return to is troubled. Time is slipping through our fingers like sand. I will be watching over you as much as I can. Cross this bridge. In the span of two truths and an apology you will be back on Earth.' Then it was gone.

'I can't go any further with you,' Ariana said to Dumbledore as he stepped onto the bridge. 'I love you, I will always love you, and Abby. Tell him I love him, won't you?' She said, and she handed Dumbledore the daisy chain she had made.

Dumbledore nodded, and Pilgrim looked aside, unable to bring himself to intrude. There were a few murmured words and then Dumbledore was standing beside him. 'Shall we?' Dumbledore asked.

'By all means,' Pilgrim said, and stepped forth.

They began to walk across the bridge which stretched onward and onward, blending into the far bank.

'I must confess I do not know what to think of you,' Dumbledore said. 'I had formed the opinion that you were, in all probability, an opportunistic thief, or mad. A conman who had picked up some, admittedly remarkable, skills. I find myself revising that opinion. The things I have seen here suggest you are many things, but insane is not one of them.'

'I would not bother to revise it too much,' Pilgrim replied, a little morosely. 'Whilst my faculties have recovered there was a time when even I cannot deny I was unstable. As for being a thief, I had no honourable intentions for the Matrix Aeternitatis.'

'And yet we find ourselves on the same side. Do you expect to betray me soon?' Dumbledore asked. He had fished a yellow yo-yo out of his pocket and was bobbing it up and down.

'I cannot promise anything,' Pilgrim admitted. 'But not to Voldemort, and not for the Matrix. If what the Watcher said is true it's even more dangerous than I imagined.'

'It would be wise to trust him, I think,' Dumbledore said, 'there is a peace and a healing to this place. I feel younger than I have in years, and my own troubles seem lighter. Though that might be because the gravity is weaker here.'

'What?'

'The yo-yo's movement is in accordance with a weaker gravitational field,' Dumbledore said.

'Oh, I had not realised. I thought …'

'You thought I was trying to distract myself from the fact that I bade farewell to my sister?' Dumbledore asked. 'I am an old man, I have come to accept that we all part from time to time. At least now I have the hope that we will meet again.'

'Yes, I … I am sorry,' Pilgrim said. 'I think I might be able to see that it would hurt.'

Their feet struck earth instead of stone and they realised that they were no longer on the bridge. Pilgrim looked down, in his hand there was a single white feather, not quite a swan's. They were standing amongst damp pine trees and perhaps twenty yards away they could see the iron gates of Hogwarts.

The gates were rusted and fallen.


	11. Chapter 11

11

 **Author's Note:** May I extend my thanks to NothingExistence who has been so kind as to offer his invaluable assistance to me as editor and proof reader for this story. I am sure that you'll be relieved to hear that after this chapter his guidance will render this story more readable.

As a small note I am not quite sure how long it will be before I write another chapter, I have a _lot_ of work looming. In the meantime, keep well.

One of the characters in the chapter uses quite strong language on a semi-regular basis. Just as a warning.

 **Lost Time**

They stood, shell-shocked, looking at the gates of Hogwarts. The statuary on either side of the rusted wrought iron gates was cracked and covered in crawling ivy. A fine Scottish drizzle obscured the castle.

'Halt! Who goes there?' A voice called form behind them. 'How did you get past the watch?'

Dumbledore and Pilgrim turned around to face the speaker. She was an auror, clad in a scarlet robe. She was aiming a wand at them. At her belt hung a sheathed short-sword and, to Pilgrim's surprise, a somewhat antiquated pistol. She was trembling slightly as she looked at them. Her eyes were hollow and her face gaunt. 'Professor? Is that really you?' She asked, looking at Dumbledore, wand dipping slightly.

'It is,' Dumbledore said gently. 'Are you quite well?' He took a step forward.

'Stay back!' The auror warned. 'Just stay where you are. No talking.' She took one hand from her wand and pressed the leather of a vambrace which was wrapped around her wrist.

A small frown creased Dumbledore's brow. 'My school is damaged, Hortensia. Your presence suggests the Ministry are concerned enough to be keeping it under surveillance. I hope you will not be so unwise as to prevent me from helping my charges.'

She looked at him and blinked slowly, evidently trying to master herself. 'Please, if you're really Professor Dumbledore, the best thing you can do to help them is come with me. We can't afford to lose you. Now, I need you to be silent. I can't take the risk you're something from in there.'

There was a short pause and then Dumbledore nodded. The auror sighed in relief, tension flooding out of her shoulders.

Half a minute an older auror walked out of the woods. The two exchanged passwords and checked one another's vambraces. Apparently satisfied they turned back to Dumbledore and Pilgrim. Dumbledore had pulled a large and floral umbrella from a pocket whilst he had been waiting. He had draped the daisy chain Ariana had given him around his neck. Pilgrim had stepped closer to him to shelter under the umbrellas as the rain intensified.

The older auror looked at them, wiping his rain slicked hair out of his eyes. 'You're to come with us. Walk in front and no funny moves. No talking. If you are who you look like, sir,' he said to Dumbledore, 'everything will be explained soon.'

Pilgrim looked to Dumbledore hoping to confer, but his companion merely nodded absentmindedly and began to saunter forwards to the aurors. Dumbledore tipped his hat to the two aurors who fell back, giving them a wide berth, although they kept their wands trained on both Dumbledore and Pilgirm. The younger auror held up her vambrace to her mouth. 'This is Kestrel and Goshawk, calling the nest. We have found two individuals at the border. Bringing them in for questioning. Request further back up and replacements for perimeter Zone 1. Over.'

There was a pause and a muffled reply. With a gesture from the aurors the four of them began to walk along the dirt track which led away from Hogwarts. The rain was pouring down. The pines ran with water. Droplets bounced as they hit stones, turning the rutted path into a clogged nightmare of mud. Even the drying charms on the aurors robes seemed to be struggling as the scarlet robes slowly turned to burgundy. The afternoon, or at least Pilgrim thought that it was afternoon, was almost gone. The heavy rainclouds turning the autumnal lighting into a swiftly fading gloaming.

Dumbledore's umbrella must have been imbued with enchantments as it was keeping the headmaster spotlessly clean and dry. Pilgrim, only protected by the physical reality of the umbrella, scowled as his boot splashed in a puddle, soaking his knee in muddy water.

By the time that they had reached the auror's base, about two miles walk from the gates everyone baring Dumbledore was thoroughly drenched. The base itself was a sturdy and low-lying fortification. Ditches, stakes and mounded walls of earth formed two outer rings of defence around a stonewall about fifteen feet high and topped with razor wire which ran along the outside of the battlements.

'You'll need to go through decontamination,' the older auror said. He pointed to a long wooden cabin about thirty yards outside the defences. 'You can go through one at a time. We'll wait with whoever goes second.' He held up a hand to forestall further questions. 'We'll take you to the captain, but only after decon. Until then, no talking, not if you want us to believe you might be human.'

It took almost an hour for them both to pass through the decontamination process. Witches and wizards, layered in so many spells that they shimmered, ran dozens of tests on them and their clothing. The feather – which Pilgrim had tucked into one of his pockets before they had begun to walk back – was mysteriously absent. Finally, once they had finished the procedure and their clothes had been exchanged for non-descript white robes they were handed their wands and escorted through the gates of the camp. It was dark as they passed through the last gate. Lanterns filled with blue flames were the only sources of light in the chill, damp circle inside the walls. Their escorts led them down to a bunker in the centre of compound.

A bear-like auror met them at the door. He exchanged passwords with the escorts and gave them a short bow in greeting. 'Auror Campbell, at your service,' he said. His voice was a gruff, but kindly growl. With a gesture to invite them to follow him he opened the first door to the bunker and led them inside.

From what Pilgrim could see as they marched down the corridor the bunker was Spartan in its furnishings. Grey walls and grey doors lined their path. Dormitories opened to right and left: steel-framed bunk beds lined undecorated walls. The air was decidedly cool. The only light came from more of the enchanted lanterns, spaced every few yards. They shed a steady white-blue light over everything so that those men and women they passed looked like little more than inferi.

The auror leading them tapped a wall with his wand. He pricked his thumb on a needle which presented itself. The steel drank the blood and then retracted into the wall which dissolved into nothing. Beyond there was a room with a single desk. A short woman in her early fifties sat writing. She looked up as they entered and gave a curt nod to the auror who gave a sharp salute, turned and left.

The woman examined them, hooded eyes running over them. Pilgrim took her in in turn: five-foot nothing; steel-grey hair cut short; and the confidant, steady posture of someone who knew they were dangerous. She stood and offered her hand to them. 'Good to see you Albus, thought we'd lost you.'

'Morgan,' Dumbledore replied. 'I cannot say that it reassures me to see you here, but it does give me hope. May I present Mr Pilgrim? He has been helping me in a few matters recently.'

'Pleased to meet you,' she said, taking Pilgrim's hand in a firm grip. 'Name's Morgan Gore.' She turned back to Dumbledore. 'Where've you been?'

'I was on the Daedalus before it exploded …'

'Exploded? Funny fucking explosion. We haven't found _any_ of it. It disappeared. What about since then?' She asked.

There was momentary pause and Dumbledore pinched his brow. 'Morgan, how long have we been gone?'

She looked at them for a moment and then sighed. She slumped back down into her chair. 'You had better sit down.'

As Dumbledore conjured a pair of well cushioned armchairs and sat down Morgan moved the desk to the corner. Pilgrim sat down in one of the chairs, yawning as he did so. His body was aching, he realised he did not know how long it had been since he last slept. Morgan gave him a look which might almost have been sympathetic.

'Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?' She asked.

'Coffee please, black,' Pilgrim said, gratefully. He allowed his head to loll in the chair, ignoring Dumbledore's reply. There was the sound of a kettle boiling and then the chink of a cafetiere as it slid into place. A mug was pressed into Pilgrim's hands and he roused himself enough to open his eyes and take a sip. The bitter taste of coffee bit into his mouth and he gave a small sigh of pleasure as he took in the smell.

'Forgive us,' Dumbledore said, taking a mug of tea, a small heap of sugar lumps and a slice of lemon. 'I am afraid that we have had a rather trying day. Would you like to tell us precisely how long we have been gone?'

Morgan nodded, nursing her own mug. 'Forty-two days.'

Pilgrim jerked, swearing as hot coffee spilt over his hand. 'Forty-two days! What's happened since we've been gone?'

Morgan's eyes flicked towards Dumbledore for an instant. He nodded though and with a momentary grimace she replied to Pilgrim, 'That's rather a long story. I'll explain, but would you care to tell me where you've both been since then?'

'We used an experimental spell to escape the Daedalus. It appears to have ejected us rather later than we anticipated,' Pilgrim said.

'You have a phoenix, Albus. Why didn't you use him?' Morgan asked.

'A creature of fire, such as the phoenix, could have been disastrous on a ship such as the Daedalus. The spell bags had been shredded by the Death Eaters. If I had requested his assistance we might have found that half of Warwickshire was missing,' Dumbledore said firmly. 'Now if you wouldn't mind might I ask what has happened at Hogwarts? And what of Voldemort? I hardly think he would let a month and a half go to waste.'

'He hasn't. But Scrimgeour acted first. As soon as you'd been gone for twenty-four hours Scrimgeour placed the Doom of Nimue on Britain,' Morgan said grimly. Catching Pilgrim's bemused expression, she elaborated, 'No apparition; no portkeys; no unauthorised floo use. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's mobility was severely cut.'

'I can't remember _that_ ,' Pilgrim muttered, then, raising his voice he continued, 'Still, the Ministry must be suffering from the same problem?'

'The Minister has lit wendfire on the Saxon beacons. Every wizarding family is within a twenty-minute broom ride of an auror manned fire. Any emergency and we can get there. We have platoons ready to go to protect the beacons if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named tries to attack us that way too. The Minister hired mercenaries. He's started conscription to raise a proper defence force. He declared a national state of emergency. The Wizangamot can't override him. At least it can't on military action. There are inquisitors going around the Ministry to weed out traitors,' Morgan explained.

'Scrimgeour has never brooked disagreement,' Dumbledore said slowly, 'I hope that he knows what he is doing. Wendfire on the beacons at this time of year?'

'They avoided the beacons near Alderley until the time had passed,' Morgan assured him.

'Has it been enough to slow Voldemort?'

'Hard to say. Some of us were expecting an attack on the Ministry itself as soon as you were gone. That hasn't happened. People aren't happy though, and what's happened at Hogwarts hasn't helped. We can't even say that it was You-Know-Who, for sure,' Morgan admitted.

Dumbledore looked at her and waited. He set down his mug of tea on the air beside and regarded her over the top of his half-moon spectacles. She shifted uncomfortably.

'This is a matter of some secrecy. Are you certain this man is to be trusted, Albus?' She asked, jerking her head at Pilgrim. Dumbledore nodded. With a sigh she continued, 'We aren't certain. It happened a week after you'd gone. We started getting patroni delivering messages from the aurors and staff here. They were incoherent. Some of them cut off half way through. That was when we started getting the children. McGonagall must have evacuated them by the only authorised floos in the castle. Youngest first. We got almost all of the fifth years, even a few sixth years. Then nothing. We tried to send aurors back the other way. We couldn't get through.'

Dumbledore sagged in his chair. 'Did the children know …?'

'No. The first thing they knew was that there was shouting. Some of them remember the ghosts screaming. The windows broke, every dragon-shitting one of 'em. None of the accounts match. Talking to them is like making a puzzle from a dozen different boxes.

'They agree that the professors went to hold _it_ back. Sprout, Flitwick, Sinestra, McGonagall, Slughorn, Hooch, Burbage, even your two divination teachers. The others weren't around. We don't know what happened next. Some centaurs escaped the Forbidden Forest. After the floo fell: no-one.'

'I assume that the centaurs were not communicative?' Dumbledore asked wearily. He had looked stricken at the list of names, but now he simply looked old and worn thin.

Morgan nodded. 'Not a word. One bit out her own tongue.'

'You believe that there are still students in there?' Dumbledore asked. Pilgrim shivered, there was something about the way in which the old man asked the question which made him very glad he was not the one responsible.

'Maybe. We sent in a team of aurors an hour after it started. They didn't come back. The second expedition went in a week later. We'd kitted them out to the hilt. The Unspeakables were here by then. They've been assessing the barrier ever since. The wall is permeable, but only in one direction, they say.'

'The wall?' Pilgrim asked.

'It stretches about three miles around Hogwarts. You step over: you vanish,' she explained.

'What happened to the second expedition?' Dumbledore said. There was a tension in his shoulders.

Morgan grimaced. She chewed her cheek for a few moments, her gaze fixed on the wall over Dumbledore's shoulder. 'You'd better see for yourselves. We charmed the journals they took. Amazingly it worked. The reports appeared here. The charms failed, eventually. We got some stuff. You can look before you go in.'

'Ah, so we are going in then?' Dumbledore asked.

She snorted, 'Could I stop you?'

'No,' Dumbledore admitted.

'There we are then. There isn't much more I can tell you.'

'Except for what Voldemort has been doing,' Pilgrim pointed out, suppressing a yawn. He held up his hands as she glared at him. 'I am sure that I beg forgiveness for speaking out, and so on and so forth, but isn't that a rather pressing concern?'

She gave a sharp nod. 'You're right. He went to the ICW. I … I think it's easier to show you. Memories were circulated to all auror outposts. The Unspeakables set up a pensieve. You can use that, Albus,' she stood up, finishing her coffee. 'Mr Pilgrim, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask your forbearance, but this is a confidential memory. Only individuals with clearance can view it.'

Pilgrim prepared himself for an argument and then sighed. The room was comfortably warm, and he was struggling to even keep his eyes open. Dumbledore looked nearly as tired as he stood, steadying himself of the back of his chair. Pilgrim tried to persuade his body to rise, but it felt as if it would take a herculean effort. 'In that case would you mind if I just stayed here and closed my eyes for a little nap? You'll tell me all about it afterwards, won't you, Dumbledore?'

Morgan hesitated for a moment and then nodded. 'Of course. I shall be back here shortly.' She tapped her wand against the desk and the various pieces of paper which were lying on it leapt into the air, ordered themselves and slipped into a desk draw which locked itself.

Dumbledore gave a slight smile to Pilgrim and turned to wait for Morgan to finish. A moment later she rapped her wand against the wall. It slid aside revealing a narrow staircase leading downwards, lit by soft green light. With a final, suspicious glance at Pilgrim she led the way down the stairs.

The stairway was short, only a dozen steps, and it opened out into a long low room covered in white tiles. The light was brighter here, emanating from phosphorescent tiles. The wall sealed behind them, leaving no sound but their breathing. In the centre of the room stood an octagonal marble plinth with a shallow silver dish set into it. The far wall was lined with shelves covered in phials, each filled with strands of silver mist.

Noting Dumbledore's querying eyebrow as he spied the phials Morgan pursed her lips, 'Most of them are the student's memories. They're too inexperienced to be very clear. Still, they helped make the picture we have.'

'About which I must say you have been rather unforthcoming. I cannot help but feel you are not being entirely honest with me,' Dumbledore said.

'Can you blame me. I have very good reason not to trust people. You, you I can trust. I don't know this Pilgrim though, and you've been wrong before,' Morgan said, crossing her arms over her chest, meeting his gaze steadily.

Dumbledore bowed his head in acknowledgement, 'A just criticism. Would you care to explain a little more now that we are alone?'

'There isn't much more to tell. In summary: Hogwarts was attacked by person or people unknown. Approximately fifteen to twenty percent of the student body did not escape. The professors, amongst the best witches and wizards in Britain did not escape. The aurors who were there vanished. No house elves escaped. Whatever attacked was swift, ruthless and powerful. The reports from the aurors will speak from themselves.

'There were similarities which the Unspeakables noted to some attacks launched by Grindlewald. I don't know enough about it and they didn't explain it to me.'

'Would you care to speculate on who is behind this?' Dumbledore asked, leaning on the stone of the pensieve, looking down into the burnished silver bowl.

'Not You-Know-Who. It doesn't serve his purposes. It was indiscriminate. This was someone else. Working alone. No-one's claimed responsibility. They just want to hurt us. No-one fits the profile. All the main players would probably admit it,' Morgan said. 'That enough for you?'

'It is useful to see things through a friend's eyes,' Dumbledore said.

'Yet you don't want Pilgrim here?'

'You forbad him,' Dumbledore observed mildly.

'Don't kid with me, Albus. You don't play by the rules, you make them. You're Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock. If you wanted to you could have authorised him. I had to remind you of the rules or lose my job. You didn't have to follow them,' she said, tapping her foot on the floor.

'You might think that, but I couldn't possibly comment,' Dumbledore replied. 'Although, you have reminded me of a couple of questions that slipped my mind earlier.'

'Naturally,' she said dryly.

'What state is the Wizangamot in? I realise as an auror you are expected to remain impartial, but …'

Morgan opened her mouth and then closed it, frowning. 'This doesn't leave this room. It's bad. Your allies are propping up Scrimgeour. It's barely enough. If You-Know-Who kills a handful ...'

'How many seats does he need?'

'Out of the fifty? Your lot don't trust Scrimgeour. Don't trust the Ministry. They're barely helping him. They won't let him hold the nominations. You-Know-Who is about three behind, by my count. Separatists and Unionists are out for blood. The rest want favours. Your cabal is leaderless. They're stopping action. It's just a matter of time,' Morgan said grimly. 'Bluntly: the country's up shit-creek without even a tablespoon for a paddle.'

Dumbledore stroked his beard and took off his glasses, stowing them in his robe. 'I see. Morale must be faltering.'

'It's piss-poor. People think you're gone. Aurors are discussing desertion,' she admitted, her lips in a thin line.

'Not something you would consider?' Dumbledore asked gently.

'My house was Hufflepuff,' she said and then sighed, 'Things did get worse: after the Boy-Who-Lived vanished.'

'Harry is still in there?' Dumbledore said, his face draining of colour as he looked at her.

She looked away from the expression of helpless grief welling up in his eyes. 'I'm sorry. The cause …'

'The cause? The cause is immaterial,' he said coldly. Then with a visible effort he mastered himself. 'Forgive me. With your leave I think that the time has come to view this memory.'

She turned away from him and took her time walking to the shelves. Peering intently at the phials she concentrated on quelling the sense of shame which radiated through her at the thought of seeing his grief. Picking out the phial, which was sealed with a stopper of black wax, she took a quick glance behind her. To her relief Dumbledore had regained his usual, genial aspect.

'Here.' She asked, holding out the phial to him. 'Albus, if …'

'Morgan, I do appreciate your concern,' he said gravely, blue eyes locked onto hers. 'However, I think we both know that any personal feelings must be put aside for now. I do have a request to make though: I intend to enter Hogwarts in the morning, if there are any aurors and Unspeakables here that you trust let them know. If you can keep my survival quiet I would appreciate it. If I am lost tomorrow I would not have my friends struck the double blow of knowing that I survived, only perish again.'

'I'll do my best.'

* * *

Pilgrim's wand was out before the wall closed. Fighting back another yawn he swiftly disarmed the surveillance charms on the office, nudging their parameters so that they were fixed to watch the ceiling. He cast a supersensory charm on himself. He took a deep breath, feeling it ripple through him and settle. He suppressed a shiver as his senses suddenly intensified. Far above the rain was beating on the earth. He could feel the pad of auror's feet in the passage outside. Below him he could feel the beat of Dumbledore's heart and Morgan's, radiating through the floor. The light was almost blinding, but after a moment or two his sight adjusted, and he could open his eyes properly.

He stood and scanned the room. The shelves were stacked with a handful of items, but none of them were particularly interesting. The desk seemed to be his best bet. He crouched down, examining the wood. The desk was formed from a single tree trunk, probably charmed to assume the shape. The drawers had sealed so that there was nothing but seamless wood.

He frowned, running his fingers over the wood. He closed his eyes reaching out with his mind, feeling for the charms which held the desk together. His fingers buzzed as if touching a live wire. He concentrated on it and followed the slender thread of silver energy up to the nexus of a web of strands. He ran his wand over each string of energy tasting the musical notes as they ran. Then, gently, he snipped a single thread. He opened his eyes. Below he could just make out the murmur of voices as Dumbledore and Morgan spoke. Pilgrim swung the door to the cabinet in the desk open. The parchments inside were stacked in neat piles.

He nodded to himself in satisfaction. 'Organised, good. Makes it easier for anyone to find what they're for.'

Pilgrim flicked through a set of papers. Nothing: troop movements, memos from higher up the chain of command. He could hear Morgan crossing the room below. He stuffed the pile back in and drew out another. It was more promising: reports from aurors who had been patrolling around the edge of the 'anomaly' as the reports called it. He duplicated them, stuffing the pages into his pockets and then pushed the stack of parchment back into the desk drawer. Morgan's feet thumped on the stairs, each vibration running through him. He fumbled with the door of the cabinet, holding it to as he closed his eyes and bound the threads of magic back together.

By the time Morgan came back into the room he was leaning back in the chair, eyes closed. He heard Morgan sniff.

'Are you quite well, Mr Pilgrim? You look flushed.'

* * *

Dumbledore poured the memory into the pensieve and lowered his head slowly towards the swirling mist. He landed amongst the members of the International Confederation of Wizards. They were milling about in the lobby of the Headquarters of the International Confederation of Wizards. Dumbledore was standing beside the Court Recorder: a slim witch whose eidetic memory left the room in perfect focus.

The Supreme Mugwump, an elderly Indian witch, strode through the throng. She carried a curling staff, banded with three interwoven steel loops, in one hand. In the other she bore a net which glittered with multifaceted jewels. Two witches and two wizards flanked her, bearing lanterns of delicate horn.

The two vast doors at the end of the lobby swung open before her and the Supreme Mugwump led the milling witches and wizards into the hall. It was dimly lit. Shadows gathered in the corners of the long room. The walls were carved from a smoky blue stone, through which delicate veins of gold curled. The enchanted ceiling was filled with flurries of fish which darted around dark and crumbling ruins.

The delegates trooped in. They whispered to one another as they filed through the doors. The soft babble of voices filled the air as the Supreme Mugwump took her seat at the far end of the hall. The delegates sat and a thick golden chain was draped across the doors. Raising her staff, the Supreme Mugwump slammed it into the ground: once, twice, thrice. Silence fell over the room.

The wizards and witches bearing the lanterns raised them. The Mugwump dropped her hand and they opened the lanterns. Light leapt outwards, dancing over the chamber and settling into the sockets in the walls. The room seemed to glow as the lights settled and the lanterns were set down. The session had begun.

Dumbledore wandered around the room, tuning out the debate over whether or not wizards could mitigate the effects of muggle machinery. Instead he took note of the companions the various delegates had chosen. The gaps between various groups were suggestive of the unofficial parties in play. Here and there wizards and witches wore tokens of one leader or another: silver roses at their lapels, sashes of azure silk; a sprig of rosemary. The radical Peruvian delegates, the Texans and the Russian sorcerers sat together, occasionally standing to demand that the Confederation agree to interference. Meanwhile, the leader of the Australians, Marcus Godwin, was lounging beside the Japanese mages, pointedly ignoring the debate entirely.

If Dumbledore had not chanced to be looking at Godwin he would have never noticed the man glance at his watch and flinch a moment before a crack of thunder rang around the chamber. The discussion halted instantly. The delegates looked around nervously as dust drifted down from the ceiling. Then, from the dust a man arose. He was tall, with handsome features and black hair. His skin was unnaturally pale, almost translucent. His eyes burnt with dark flames. The dust rose around him forming a simple, black robe. He gave a formal bow to the hall.

Two of the lantern bearers raised their wands. In an instant the newcomer had his own wand drawn. 'I come here in good faith. Do not test it,' he warned them softly. They hesitated, eyes flicking to the Mugwump for orders.

'And who _are_ you to come here?' The Supreme Mugwump asked, recovering herself.

The newcomer smiled, 'I am Lord Voldemort.'

There were hisses of fear from many of the delegates. Some even leapt to their feet as if hoping to run. Others merely looked puzzled. A couple even snarled and drew their wands. The Supreme Mugwump raised an eyebrow, 'The British warlock?' She turned to the British delegates, 'Would you care to explain to your countryman how we do things here, or must we hold you in contempt?'

'Madam Mugwump, that _thing_ is no countryman of ours,' one of the British delegates, a thin and elderly gentleman, replied stiffly. 'He is a criminal and a murderer and he should be removed forthwith.'

Voldemort smiled at him, before turning to the rest of the Confederation. 'I intend no harm to any of you, and if I did not one of you here could stop me. Let me say my piece and I will leave in peace.'

The Supreme Mugwump took in the room and grudgingly inclined her head, 'Very well, Mister Voldemort …'

'Lord Voldemort, if you please,' he interrupted.

' _Mister_ Voldemort,' she continued, 'and if you interrupt me again we shall see if you are equal to your reputation. Next time you wish to address us, however, you should remember to go through the appropriate channels.' She sat back, watching him warily.

He smiled again, 'My thanks. If I could have been assured that my message would not have been … mislaid, I would of course have moved through the proper channels. However, today I bring a complaint against my own country, against my Ministry.'

Mutters ran around the hall. Several of the wizards surreptitiously drew their wands.

Voldemort began again, 'You may have heard of me …'

'Of course, we have! You've murdered men and women from nearly every Morgana-cursed country here!' One of the delegates shouted from within the crowd. A series of jeers ran around the chamber until the Mugwump slammed her staff down again, glaring at the delegates until they fell silent.

'What I come here to say today goes beyond any petty hatred you may hold for me,' Voldemort said, and his voice cracked like a whip over his audience. A hush fell. 'The Ministry of Magic for Britain is pursuing a campaign which threatens the way of life for all magical folk on this planet. They sabotaged an airship, trying to bring down the Statute of Secrecy so that they could bring the muggles in as allies against my freedom fighters …'

'You did that yourself! The Ministry had no part in your madness,' the thin British gentleman interrupted.

'Order! I will have order Mr Hargreaves, or you will be escorted from this chamber,' the Supreme Mugwump insisted.

Voldemort smiled again, but this time it was razor sharp and dangerous, 'It is strange then that barely anyone was harmed in this so-called attack by my people. I did indeed raid the airship, but as most will attest I escorted the majority of the guests off the ship, leaving it in the command of the Ministry. Still, no matter. What came after is far more serious. The Minister has lit the beacons across all of England. He has placed the Doom of Nimue on the land. Every witch and wizard must travel like muggles, or risk being seen on brooms. The Statute of Secrecy is strained to breaking point.

'Not only has he endangered us, but an attack has been launched upon our children. An attack which the Ministry insists I committed, and yet will release no evidence to prove that it is so! I humbly petition, or perhaps not so humbly,' he winked to the audience, 'this assembly to send a coterie to Britain. Investigate the Ministry, before it is too late.' He bowed to the audience. 'There, I have said my piece. With your leave, Madam, I shall go.'

The Supreme Mugwump hesitated for an instant and then, seeing the drawn wands gave a sharp nod. 'Go. We will discuss this.' She turned a steely gaze on the delegates, 'If anyone here casts a curse I will turn them to stone for a hundred years!'

Voldemort stepped backwards and melted into the air.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** My deepest thanks to NothingExistence without whom this chapter would be a far more jumbled and incomprehensible mess. I can't promise another chapter soon (although the next has been mostly written) as my personal circumstances continue to be rather more hectic than I would prefer. A happy New Year to all of you.

 **Aurors**

 _… western perimeter secure. Auror P. reported dream of a bloody tower for the third night in a row. P's behaviour is increasingly erratic. Request immediate transfer._

 _'Sightings of …_

The words scrawled on the strip of parchment swam before Morgan's eyes. She sat back, rubbing her temples. Reaching out she switched on the wireless. With a groan, she stood and walked over to the wall where, with a tap of her wand a doorway appeared, leading to a small kitchenette. The radio hissed with static, tuning itself as she filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove.

The strains of violins crackled over the airwaves and died away, replaced by a radio presenter. 'That was "A Lament to Lyonesse" on strings, played by the Founder's Quartet. And now …'

Morgan flicked her wand towards the radio, cycling through the channels, searching for the news. She tossed two heaped spoonfuls of ground coffee into a cafetière and leant on the counter, watching the pale pink flames from the charmed hob flicker beneath the kettle.

'… Aurors and Oblivators were called yesterday afternoon to the Muggle's National Portrait Gallery after a fully-grown mandrake was released in the building. Current estimates suggest over fifty Muggles have died and a further two-score have been left comatose. These individuals have been moved to St Mungo's so that should they awaken they may be obliviated without the further endangerment of the Statute of Secrecy.

'Although casualties were high, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement explained to reporters that Muggles regularly lose greater numbers and the event should not be considered overly significant. Additionally, the casualties were far lower than they could have been as the mandrake became quiescent after the initial shock and had rooted itself in the chest cavity of a victim.

'A Muggle-born, Jennifer Rogers, who was visiting the gallery with her parents came upon the outlying bodies and after conjuring ear-protectors secured the perimeter with Muggle-repelling charms. She then called the Aurors. Commenting on her actions Ms Rogers stated that, "I went into autopilot … I mean I just started acting without thinking about it. I think I was just too stunned after seeing those poor people. If I'd been a little closer … I could have been one of them. My parents could have been among them."

'The Minister has commended Ms Rogers for her quick thinking and there have already been calls for her to be honoured.

'Although the Auror Department has stressed that it has been unable to determine the culprit as yet, Head Auror Gawain Robards remarked that, "We believe it was an intentional attack on Muggles. There's simply no way a fully-grown mandrake would have found its way into the middle of Muggle London on its own."'

The kettle began to whistle and, grabbing an oven-mitt, Morgan hooked it off the stoke. She set it down to cool for a few moments before pouring around a mugful into the cafetière. Setting the plunger into the glass she picked it and a mug up and left the kitchenette, which sealed behind her.

Meanwhile, the radio presenter continued unabated, 'Speculation remains rife as to the perpetrator or perpetrators. The terrorist group known as "Death Eaters" has denied involvement, stating that it is their aim to protect wizards from external threats rather than expose us. The Ministry has labelled this disinformation but has refused to point wands until the investigation yields results. Muggles have been informed that the cause was a leak of poisonous gas. Ministry liaison teams are working with Muggle authorities to support the story.'

Morgan sat back down at her desk shaking her head at the radio. She pressed downwards on the plunger on the cafetière. She would eat her hat if it turned out the Dark Lord was not behind the attack. In all probability, the Minister was reluctant to admit his responsibility for fear it would reveal how ineffective their efforts to contain him continued to be.

'In other news, the Department of Magical Transportation has released fresh guidelines for apparition tests designed. The move, according to sources in the department, is intended to reduce instances of splinching …'

Morgan shook her head and twisted the tuning dial until she found a channel playing slow jazz. Pouring her coffee into the mug she added a splash of milk and half a teaspoon of sugar before taking a sip. A knock on the concealed door of the office and she jumped, spilling hot coffee over her arm. She swore and vanished the coffee. Switching off the radio she went to the door.

* * *

Pilgrim slipped out of bed with the first morning watch of Aurors. Washed and in a fresh scarlet robe from the fort's supply of uniforms, he slid into the corridor outside the small room he had been allocated the night before.

He rapped his knuckles sharply against the wall leading to Morgan's quarters. There was a muffled oath and a few moments later the door materialised before opening. Dark bags lay under her eyes and she looked up at him with the universal expression of the dog-tired. A small frown creased her forehead.

'Pilgrim wasn't it?' She asked, barely pausing for his answering nod. 'What is it?'

'I was hoping to speak to you about the expedition to Hogwarts. Do you have a moment?' He said.

Her eyes hardened, she made to close the door, 'I hardly see that it's your business, Mr Pilgrim.'

'Forgive me, but I think it is. Or rather it could be. I doubt you want to throw your Aurors into whatever nightmare is waiting on the other side of that boundary. On the other hand, this sort of affair is my speciality. I am willing to offer my services, for a price,' Pilgrim said, jamming his foot into the doorway.

'A mercenary then? Is that your game?' Morgan asked. She eased the pressure on the door slightly.

'Yes. Is that a problem? You have a problem; your resources are overstretched. Let me help fix it. The price won't be more than you can afford. The benefits though are manifold. The old man can verify that I have a number of skills,' Pilgrim promised, curling his fingers around the edge of the door. 'Are you really so well staffed you can throw away an Auror's life?'

Pilgrim waited as Morgan scrutinised his face. 'Come in,' she grunted, ushering him in. She shut the door behind him with a sharp click. 'I won't offer you anything to drink. A mercenary, eh? Why come to me? The Dark Lord could pay you better.'

'Indeed. But I fancy you're slightly less likely to kill a hired-wand rather than pay him. Dictators and terrorists, I might deal with, but Voldemort is a different kettle of fish. I saw the last war. That's not a future I want to live in. Besides with Dumbledore here to face him I dare say the war will slip back out of his grasp before too long,' Pilgrim added idly, running his long fingers over the spines of a handful of books Morgan had propped next to the door.

'Albus intends to lead the expedition into Hogwarts,' Morgan reminded him as she sat down in her chair again. 'He can hardly lead the fight against You-Know-Who from there.'

'What are you suggesting? That the Ministry wouldn't be able to cope without him? They've survived the last few weeks,' Pilgrim countered.

'I want to know how deep this unexpected conscience runs Mr Pilgrim. You know you have a shark's eyes? Without Albus here would you still be willing to enter Hogwarts?' Morgan asked, folding her arms as she awaited a response.

'Of course, provided I get paid,' Pilgrim said. He picked up a paperweight pyramid from her desk and rolled it over in his hand. 'Tell me, you believe then that Dumbledore ought not to come with the expedition? Am I correct? I cannot believe he will be happy to hear that. I doubt that you could persuade him otherwise. I would certainly struggle.'

Morgan answered slowly, not meeting his eyes, 'Albus and I are old friends …'

'So, you think telling him the lives of a nation are more important than the lives of a handful of schoolchildren will go down well then?' Pilgrim scoffed. 'I'm certain I can put my faith in him. Look at how well he's come through the stress of the last few days: an airship attacked; passengers killed in front of us; returning here only to discover the school has been attacked. And his response? He decides to throw himself into the breach once more. I doubt you or I could name half a dozen witches or wizards with his strength of character.'

Morgan paused. A trace of concern flitting over her features. 'You make an excellent point. Still, if you are willing to enter Hogwarts, provided Albus vouches for your expertise and you pass some basic tests, I will consider signing you on, at a probationary rate you understand. Much as it pains me to admit it you're right. I do not want to lose any more Aurors. Which is why I will be leading the expedition personally.'

Pilgrim let his mask slip. His sly smile was momentarily replaced by shock before he mastered himself. 'I beg your pardon?'

'I said that I will lead the expedition. I've been sitting on my arse too long. Now, let's get someone to take you for evaluation. Perhaps a few of the Unspeakables can have a look at what you can do too …' She trailed off as she flipped open a pocket mirror and tapped on the glass. 'Request escort for Mr Pilgrim from my office. And find Albus Dumbledore for me. Let him know I'd like to speak to him when he has a moment.'

'I hope you know what you're doing,' Pilgrim said. In the depths of his cold heart he felt the faintest flash of excitement.

'So, what have you got?' An Auror asked. The man had a scrap of shaving foam sticking to his left ear, and Pilgrim was reasonably sure his name was either Geoffrey or Gordon.

Smiling ruefully Pilgrim laid down his cards. 'You know, every time I think I'm getting the hang of this game it seems to slip through my fingers again,' he said. 'I make it four points: all the same suit, but that's it.'

'Yep, that's a flush, just so you know,' the Auror said. He smiled as he moved Pilgrim's peg onward by another four along the cribbage board. 'And one for the starter card,' he added, pressing the peg down one further along.

'Then is it your crib now?' Pilgrim asked with faux uncertainty.

'That's right. Let's see, two fifteens and that's it. Four more points for me and that finishes the game,' the Auror said. He sat back with a satisfied smirk. 'Now, how do you feel about a couple of rounds for a few galleons?'

Pilgrim chuckled, 'Another time perhaps. I suspect you'd take me for every knut I have, at the moment I don't have that many to spare.'

'Well, if the Cap' signs you on you'll have a few loose coins in your pockets,'fancy wagering a few of them preemptively?'

'I think I'll wait to count my chickens, thank you very much,' Pilgrim said. He sat back, looking around the barracks. A few Aurors were off duty. A few were making themselves light bites to eat. The tests which the Aurors and the Unspeakables had set him had taken almost an hour to get through. Various assessments of his ability in Transfiguration, defence, concealment, and agility from the Aurors, accompanied by more rigorous tasks in curse-breaking, potions, and even alchemy. Although they had not proved challenging, the process had been trying. Now, ingratiating himself with the Aurors, impatience gnawed at him.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he looked up to see Dumbledore standing behind him. The elderly wizard smiled politely, 'Excuse me, might I have a moment of your time?'

'Of course,' Pilgrim said, standing up. He turned to apologise to the Auror, whatever his name was. However, the Auror had a strangely dazed expression on his face and he was staring into the middle distance, oblivious to all that went on around him. 'What have you done to him?'

'Nothing very much,' Dumbledore said, leading the way out of the barracks and into the courtyard, 'A mild _c_ _onfundus_ charm affecting those in my vicinity. At least those without a prodigious level of training in Occlumency.' He smiled genially at Pilgrim.

Pilgrim looked up, squinting against the pale sunlight. The stockade which had, the night before, been misted with rain was now almost dry. Aurors patrolled along it red robes standing out against the dull wood of the wall.

'I see. May I ask why?' Pilgrim said as they crossed the courtyard and mounted the ramparts.

'Captain Gore and I had a little chat not long ago. We determined that it might sensible if I were not to venture into Hogwarts at the present time,' Dumbledore gave a light sigh, his gnarled fingers resting on the rampart. 'Instead I will attempt to rendezvous with certain associates of mine, and then I think we will see what can be done to sabotage Voldemort's operations in the South-East. The Death Eaters have a safe house near the Temple, a raid there should produce the information we need. Once London is secure the Ministry can start to move again.'

'You seem … unhappy about it,' Pilgrim hazarded.

'Unhappy?' Dumbledore seemed to consider the idea. 'No, I think not. Ill at ease, perhaps. Captain Gore put forward several compelling arguments for the necessity of my presence outside the fascinating anomaly my school has become. Under the circumstances, I feel that I must concede the point for now.'

'But?' Pilgrim said.

'Eloquently put. "But", for all there is nothing new under the sun, the power which has been brought to bear here is, I suspect, old enough that the sun may have forgotten it has ever seen it. I have encountered things like it, but never on this scale.' He looked towards Pilgrim, sharp blue eyes watching him. 'Can you hear it? Whispering beyond those trees? If I were you I would be very careful when you go in there. Very careful indeed.'

'The captain has agreed to me accompanying her?'

'She has, though she seemed to be under the illusion that you were a mercenary.' Dumbledore held up his hand to forestall any outcry from Pilgrim. 'I have not disillusioned her. Might I enquire as to why you decided upon this subterfuge?'

Pilgrim almost turned away from him, before forcing himself to meet the old wizard's eyes. 'I thought that she would be more amenable to taking a mercenary and professional with her, even one she despised, rather than a civilian. She appears to be a hard woman, but a kind-hearted one. I did not want to appeal to her better nature … and I could use the money.'

Dumbledore chuckled. 'Understandable. I must confess that I find myself wondering how I shall maintain myself now. One can hardly be a headmaster without a school after all. At least in the short term, I imagine the students will be distributed between the smaller, local schools. If they will take them in that is. An embarrassment after the rather elitist stance Hogwarts has maintained. Still, I would ask you to refrain from deceiving her again in the future. I would prefer to believe that you are a man I can trust.'

Pilgrim gave a short, sharp nod. 'Certainly.'

'I am so glad that we understand one another,' Dumbledore said and pulled a white paper bag from his pocket. 'Would you like a fruit gum?'

'Thank you,' Pilgrim said, taking the small sweet gingerly. He chewed for a minute and then paused. 'Is that supposed to be lime?'

'I cannot say I am entirely certain. Muggles often seem to believe that approximation is better than accuracy when it comes to sweets. It adds a certain _je ne sais quoi_ when trying a new brand of sweets,' Dumbledore said.

The damp was slowly sinking into Pilgrim's clothing. A fine layer of silver water droplets dotted his sleeves. 'So, the _confundus_?'

'Mr Pilgrim, you have the tenacity of a bloodhound,' Dumbledore said and he gave a sigh somewhere between amusement and exasperation. 'Captain Gore and I agreed that it would be best if my presence here were kept a secret. As such I have concealed myself from the Aurors and Unspeakables who were not already aware of my presence. The others agreed to have their memories modified.'

'And you came to ask me whether I would consent to my memory being modified?'

'Goodness me, no. I can hardly remove everything from the Daedalus to now from your memory. I rather think that you would notice that it was missing. However, I would ask for your complete discretion on the matters we have spoken on, Pilgrim.' Dumbledore's eyes latched onto him again over the half-moon spectacles and Pilgrim shifted uneasily.

'Naturally.'

* * *

It was almost mid-afternoon by the time the expedition set forth. Morgan took the lead, eight Aurors fanning out around her. Two grey robed Unspeakables accompanied them, keeping a little distance between them and the rest of the party. Pilgrim kept to one side and, though unwilling to provoke Morgan, he remained slightly closer to the Aurors than the Unspeakables as they left the small fort.

Lieutenant Baines watched them vanish from sight down the winding track through the damp trees and let out a sigh. Checking that the gate to the encampment had been thoroughly sealed he returned to prepare a report to Auror Headquarters, relaying Morgan's decision to lead a fresh expedition to Hogwarts. By the time fresh orders arrived the expedition would already have crossed the border. In any case, attempting to stop the party would be futile.

It took, all in all, slightly less than half-an-hour to reach the gates of Hogwarts. The rusted iron gates slowly creaked under a rising wind. The grass beyond them was formed of high yellow tussocks. Beyond the branches of the Forbidden Forest curved down to touch the ground. The grey sky was almost empty, save for a single wheeling curlew which eventually swept away, presumably in search of water.

Morgan held up her hand, bringing the party to a halt. She turned to look at them for a moment. 'Anyone who doesn't want to come: leave now.' She then stepped over the boundary and into the grounds of Hogwarts without a second glance. There was a ripple in the air and she was gone.

'Interesting,' muttered Pilgrim and then he followed her through the gates.

The air twisted around him. He was walking down a long corridor which shimmered like cut glass in sunlight. It curved in hypnotic lines, like rocks carved by water. Green grass lay under his feet. The grass was cut short, well cared for and free of any trace of human footprints. A breeze brushed his face. Ahead in the distance, he thought he could just see Morgan walking. He started to speed up, trying to catch up with her. The faster he moved the faster she receded from him until he was running. His boots ran over the ground at ever-increasing speed until it felt as if he were moving impossibly fast.

His foot snagged, and he fell to the ground, rolling over and over until he came to a dazed stop in the centre of the tunnel. Dazed he sat up and began to pull himself to his feet. As he did so the grass reached upwards. It hardened, hooking itself into wicked thorns which caught at the hem of his robe, dragging him downwards. With an effort he wrenched himself upright, thorns already burying themselves into the palms of his hands. He snarled, and the grass withered, fading to dust around him. The hooks crumbled away. He shook himself and started to walk forwards, more slowly now, eyes warily flicking over the tunnel. It had managed to get inside his head, it had forced him to behave as he never would have otherwise. He suppressed a shiver at the thought that only the fact it had underestimated him as he had underestimated it had saved him.

The tunnel curved inwards growing ever narrower around. In the glassy surface, he saw reflections and shadows swimming. Limbless, twisting monstrosities burrowed through the ethereal walls. Slithering shapes writhed at the corners of his vision. Voices whispered and tittered in his ears, promising knowledge, power, and immortality.

He tried to silence them with a spell, but they wormed past it, growing more and more insistent. Digging his fingers into his ears he bit his lip, drawing blood and focusing on the pain as he forced his way onward. The passage twisted around him, offering multiple paths again and again, but he closed his eyes and followed the faint breeze on his face.

'You can't beat me,' he hissed through gritted teeth as he marched forwards, 'I have … beaten better illusionists than you before now. Stop throwing parlour tricks at me and show me what you got.'

The moment he said it he regretted it. He felt rather than saw the attention of a presence, incomprehensibly alien and vast, turn towards him and despite himself, he cowered. His legs turned to water and he fell to his knees. The presence's attention passed on a moment later, but he could not stand up. Instead, his body twitched, out of his control. His skin was cold and clammy with sweat.

How long he lay there he was unsure, until eventually, he heard a voice beginning to whistle. It was blessedly human and flawed. After a little while the whistling broke into singing and then a little later he could hear a strong Irish brogue ringing out, 'Ring a ring of roses as the light declines …'

Gritting his teeth Pilgrim began to join the song, humming where the words escaped him. He crawled along the ground, the hooked grasses springing up and clawing at him as he forced himself onward. Then, to his despair, the tunnel ended in a sheer wall behind which grotesque shadows danced. The breeze had faded to nothing and he wondered whether that too had been a trick, leading him into this glassy tomb.

He searched desperately for a crook or crevice which might tell him where Morgan had gone. Fingertips coating the walls red with blood as the razor-sharp surface shredded them. He crouched on the floor, immobile, and then gritting his teeth once more he stood, shaking away the twisting thorn. Balling his bleeding left hand over the palm of the right he caught the blood and then threw it outwards, splattering the walls of the glass chamber with his blood. All except one corner, where the blood vanished without a trace. He lunged towards it with his last reserve of strength. The strange tunnel disintegrated around him and he was lying on hard earth. The last thing he saw before the blackness claimed him was Morgan's silhouette outlined against a campfire's light.

When Pilgrim awoke the wounds on his face, hands and arms had been treated as well as could be hoped for. The Auror robe had protected most of him, but it still seemed unlikely that he would be able to use a wand for a day or two.

Whilst he had been unconscious two more of the Aurors and one of the Unspeakables had made their way through the boundary and reached Morgan's camp. All three were shaken. Auror Campbell, the bear-like man Pilgrim had met the night before was openly weeping and refused to speak of his experiences inside the passage.

The other Auror, Ted Flynn, an Irishman, was more open although subdued. 'It was like I was walking down a long lane at night. I could almost see the lights of a cottage in the distance. In fact, I was fairly convinced I was walking to my mother's house. Naturally, I drew me wand to give a little more light, but nothing came. In that place, it was as if all the magic in the world didn't give a damn. It had up and left me. My heart.' he slapped his chest. 'Felt fit to bursting for fear of I didn't know what.

'At least I didn't know what at first. Then it came to me: there was this sound y'see. It was like an echo of my footsteps. At first, I thought it was an echo at least, but then I realised though it was trying it didn't always manage. Every now and then it'd make a mistake, pause too long between steps or not long enough. Now you might guess I was fairly freaked out by this, still, it might just be Campbell, I thought to myself. So, I called out.

'Well, it didn't echo back to me. Campbell didn't give a shout either. Instead, there was this noise, and I don't know if it was human or not. If it wasn't, it was the queerest animal I've ever heard, and if it was then I don't want to meet the man or woman who made it. I'd had enough of this tomfoolery though and so I decided to show it that I didn't give a flying feck if it was out there or not. So, I started to whistle and then when I got into it to sing …'

'That was you?' Pilgrim croaked. He shoved his back-pack away, sitting up. 'I owe you thanks. I think you saved my life.'

'Buy me a pint when we're done, I'll call it even,' Ted said, with a pale imitation of a smile. 'Anyhow, as I was saying, I started to sing to show this fellow that I'm not afraid of him. Then out of the night, I heart this laugh, it felt like icicles being dragged over my skin. He didn't come closer though and eventually I ended up waking up out here.'

'I think you were lucky,' Morgan said. It was the first time she had spoken that evening and her voice was hollow. 'I saw things I never wish to see again. As for the person you met on the road,' she paused and looked around, 'Well such things are better left until the morning.'

The Unspeakable nodded desperately, shivering as she rubbed her arms. Her nails left long red welts over the bare skin of her forearms as she furiously scratched at her skin until Campbell came and held her hands to her knees, whispering words Pilgrim could not catch.

* * *

The others fell silent, looking hungrily towards the small concealed fire Morgan had built. Throughout the night they waited for the others to arrive. They kept watch in pairs for the most part, on Morgan's orders. Ted and Pilgrim were paired with the Unspeakable and Campbell respectively, whilst she took her watches alone. In the second watch, the other Unspeakable appeared, half carrying one of the missing Aurors. Shortly after that, the others began to trickle through: first young Luciana, then rusty-haired Theobald, followed by the others, but of the ninth Auror there was no sign.

Morgan sat at the edge of the camp as the gloom of the night slowly paled. Heaping the last of the firewood she had gathered onto the fire, she drew a folder from her pack and began once more to skim the report from the second expedition.

 _First Report of Team Leader, code name: Aquila_

 _We passed over the boundary into the anomaly today. None of us recall what occurred there. We found ourselves standing in a meadow, neither in sight of Hogwarts or the gates. By the position of the Sun several hours had passed. I cannot prevent myself from suspecting that the two Unspeakables have altered our memories, but I cannot imagine that they would have managed to overpower all four of us._

 _We camped through the night and began the journey towards Hogwarts in the morning. The squad is nervous. They are keeping good order, but they have been jumping at shadows. The Goshawk set a bush on fire earlier and could not stop shaking until I took her away from it myself. Kestrel and Sparrowhawk are quiet, they have taken to scratching the backs of their hands when they think I am not watching._

 _This entire mission is against protocol. The Unspeakables have instructed us to view these reports as an opportunity to convey our impressions rather than regular report data. They claim that the subjectivity of our experiences will be more useful to research into the anomaly. Who knows? They may be right._

 _I feel myself at odds with the squad for the first time in years. They remained sullen and withdrawn. Yet, around us the valley blazes with an abundance of life. Hogwarts somehow has remained out of sight. When I asked the Unspeakables they muttered that the anomaly appears characterised by space-time distortions. I cannot help but wonder what would happen if we tried to apparate. With the Doom placed over Britain though it seems pointless and potentially foolhardy to experiment._

 _Whatever cataclysm occurred here someone must have survived it. I saw them, just as the dusk was settling over the valley. They were standing on the tree line watching us. I tried to point them out to Goshawk, but she could not see them. By the time I looked again they were gone. It is imperative that the Ministry should note that we are not alone here. There is still hope for the recovery of the students._

Morgan sighed and put the report away. Aquila's report did little to reassure her. If anything, it only exacerbated her own fears. The style was so far from his usual, cool professionalism that when it had been given to her she had wondered if it might be a forgery. Less than a day inside the anomaly had drastically altered his perspective.

The details themselves were even more disturbing. She had helped select the team for the second expedition which had totalled seven wizards and witches on the basis of its arithmetic power. The report only referred to six members of the team. It was possible, she supposed, that the Aquila had felt there was no reason to mention the seventh member of the team. Nevertheless, as she sat waiting for the twelfth member of her own team the coincidence played upon her mind.


End file.
